


A Wild Bear Chase

by luminare_ardua



Series: Dragon's Light [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminare_ardua/pseuds/luminare_ardua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Find this man, he said. Get me my bears, he said. Mad Pelagius' teeth! I didn't sign up for this kind of shit!"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>For Arliene Aswyth, sometime mercenary, courier (and occasional smuggler), it seemed like just another humdrum locate-and-retrieve assignment.</p><p>Too bad for her it didn't stay that way.</p><p>The rest of the world might just disagree however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dizzy_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy_fire/gifts).



# Index Librorum Prohibitorum Imperatum Tamrielis 4E 175

## Item 1009

Cerwen Ilötèania, _Lux draconis : Ursus venor_

**Status: _Anathema_**

**One (1) copy may be preserved by the Bureau for use in legal proceedings against the authors and publishers of the prohibited text(s). All others are to be seized and destroyed on forfeiture.**

By order of the Imperial Bureau for Approved Writings, this work is condemned for the following reasons:

  * Depiction of the worship of Tiber Septim anon Talos, which practice is forbidden in the Imperium and all its Domains; 
  * Heresy of the 8th order in condoning the worship of Talos as a _Ninth Divine_
  * Multiple instances of discussion and/or mention of the prohibited and anathema organization known as _the Blades_
  * Depiction of a public figure in poor light and false representation of historical truths.



This book is part of a series. The other works in the series, and published versions which precede and succeed this work, are also condemned (c.f. Items 1008 -1011 of this Index). Usual penalties for possession, distribution, reproduction, and advertisement of same apply. 

  


* * *

  


#### Foreword

Dear Constant Reader, 

The reign of the Dragonblood Emperors have been the subject of many popular works of fiction, unsurprising considering that the rulers of the Septim line have given us some of the most colourful episodes of history. From the conquests of the first Emperor, the blessed Tiber Septim, who is now enshrined in all Tamriel’s provinces as the Divine Talos; to the terrible Civil War of the Broken Diamonds and the tragedy of Kintyra, dramatised by Alsten Song-Weaver in his _Lay of Fallen Snow_ ; and the bloody aftermath of the long, peaceful reign of the Empress Katariah; the aspiring historian and novelist finds no shortage of subject matter. 

The lives of the later Septims are no less colourful, compared to their better known predecessors: Uriel V and his valiant if doomed attempts at the invasion of Akavir would make good fodder for any number of volumes. Research into the reign and governmental policies of Morihatha Septim, namesake of Her Cyrodiilic Majesty and Imperial Splendour, the Empress Morihatha II Mede, Blessed of Heaven, Empress, Mother and Daughter of Emperors, Inspiration of Faith and Safeguard of Justice All the Gods be with Her, has of course seen a marked resurgence in interest. Still, it is the events of the lives of the last two Septim Emperors — Uriel VII and Martin — that have formed the impetus to seize pen and paper for so many novelists and historians of our time.

Taken together, their rule over Imperial Tamriel has produced more history, more romance, than any other period; excepting the Interregnum of the Second Era, just before the Tiber Wars. Heroes arose again and again to save the Empire in its darkest hours: their shining example lives on in the popular consciousness. Whether or not they succeeded is still an open question, a century after the death of the last ruling Septim.

The Imperial Historian Praxis Sarcorum’s recounting of the received history surrounding the Oblivion Crisis summarizes the “and then, and then, and then” of events, well enough for those only interested in the skin of what happened. For those who desire the meat of the events, the official accounts must prove unsatisfying indeed! While the book’s barrenness of contextual details is expected, reliant as it is on the meagre official sources alone, the lack of detail and analysis should be a cause of reproach against what is otherwise a serviceable text. 

I, personally, found that I could not be wholly satisfied with what the official sources deign to include in their vision of historical truth. Thus I have sought out those sources _extra muralis_ of Imperial approval; their side of the story too deserves a place in the sun. Whether or not the contributions of those sources have made for a better tale, let you, Constant Reader, be the judge.

  


Cerwen of Ilötèa  
1st Midyear, 4E 109.


	2. Chapter 2

I hate surprises. They do nothing except interrupt all civilised things like orderly schedules, meals and sleep, which to seasoned travellers like yours truly, are the gifts of the Divines.

My sister and I had just caught up with the main troupe after settling some untidy business left behind out in Morrowind. The affair was simple, the resolution anything but, the journey back home miserable for various reasons. Naturally, after all that bother, we were looking forward to spending some downtime in the shops and inns of Imperial City. 

Getting called in immediately on arrival by our boss Aemilius “Sal” Salconis, of _Aemilius’s Exotic Wonders_ was not welcome, and not likely to be a happy occasion — meetings with our boss usually meant trouble of some sort we’d have to charm, weasel or strongarm into a solution. 

A meeting this soon after our return was unprecedented: the troupe surely hadn’t been back here long enough to stir up the sort of trouble that might need us to settle it, unless of course we’d managed to recruit some new and impressively gifted troublemaker. Then again, troublemakers didn’t tend to last long in Sal’s employ. Sal was fairly good to his employees, even if he was somewhat tightfisted about the finances; but he drew the line at noisy, visible trouble. As for our situation — we normally had at least one day off after coming back from a job, our contracts protected that customary break. Sal knew it and approved of the notion, so why was he sending for us now?

I looked at Clesyne, who looked back at me, just as bewildered at this turn of events. Time to see what our lord and master wanted us to tidy up for him now.

  


* * *

  


I ran through a mental listing of all the food and drinks I remembered consuming in the past day once, twice and again. In the end, I had to conclude to my lasting sorrow, that one, I’d just heard what I did; and two, I was truly neither drunk, drugged or otherwise impaired (despite any assertions that might’ve been made to the contrary) — only bone tired and grouchy. 

Well, it _had_ been days on the roads between Vvardenfell and Imperial City, hardly a pleasure trip even in the best conditions. “Bone tired and grouchy” just covered the essential basics of what I was feeling. Right now my deepest wish was a hot meal and a soft bed, and Sal’s continual talking was _in my way_. 

Still, no excuse not to be professional, as Clesyne’s elbow in my ribs rightly reminded me to stop looking like a landed fish. I asked my boss to repeat himself, rubbing my fingers against the Amulet of Julianos within my pocket: Logic shield me from any hallucinations courtesy of Sheogorath!

“Uhm Sal… Did I just listen you wrong and that you want us to get two dancing hares?” Huh. Bugger. That wasn’t quite what I’d wanted to come out of my mouth. I looked over at Clesyne in frustration. Of all the times for my little problem to crop up again…

See, you only asked Sal — oh, politely, to be sure — to repeat himself at your own peril. When the boss said jump, you didn’t ask him how high; you had better have on a Jump spell and be at least 20 feet up before he said anything further. The Imperial, or more precisely, Nibenean, was a sharp dealing, fast talking, smooth operator even for his people. The only time you might catch him off guard would be at the inn tables, an empty wine glass in hand and a pretty barmaid doing her best to fill it up again faster than he could drain it — even then you’d probably be best off counting your fingers after any deal. The one thing Sal absolutely hated, apart from being cheated (or running out of brandy), was having to slow down to let those of us slower on the uptake keep up with him. Man had a short temper too.

This time around he simply looked at me, exasperated, then tolerant; must’ve been a good day despite his current temper, eh. “Bears, Arliene, b-e-a-r-s. You _did_ understand me yes? Come now girl,” I bristled a bit at being called ‘girl’, even as he smirked, knowing that would get my goat. Damn him. “I know perfectly well you can keep up with anyone, no matter if you sound like Kynareth’s own blessed calf every Middas and twice on Sundas! I said, I want you to go pick up a dancing bear I acquired. Two, actually.”

Dancing bear, plural. Bears. Right. Oh Julianos save us. For all his virtues, Sal had an optimistic streak a mile wide that was irrepressible. I put on my best dice-playing face — I wasn’t about to land myself in trouble with Sal if I could help it. Clesyne took over the talking at this point. “Where in Oblivion did you get these — miraculous — dancing bears?” 

“I made an agreement with Frothi Iron-Fists out of Winterhold for a pair of actual, trained, dancing snow bears. None of that bullcrap with Command Creature spells and Illusioning rot. See, ‘twas a deal he made me in Chorrol about a year ago now, before we went into High Rock, since he owed me a favour,” he paused for breath here, the spots of colour in his sallow complexion marking his agitation, “and the sneak swore he had a pair of these beauties for sale, he was training them up to dance, and wouldn’t I like ‘em?” Sal’s half-Nord heritage and early life in Skyrim was showing, as it often did when he was in a temper about something. 

Clesyne and I looked at each other as Sal continued on his harangue. The idea sounded more than ludicrous, really, but who knows what new things can be done under the sun every day? I tuned back into what Sal was going on about quickly, lest I be caught napping by the boss. “… that Frothi I know is a dab hand with the training and the teaching of wild beasts, and if he says he could train bears to dance, well I might believe he could; so I agreed. _Oh yes_ , says I then, and we struck a deal on the spot, the pair of bears for 4000 silver coins, half up front, and the remaining 2000 bulls on receipt of the beasts, which he was to have sent from Winterhold. Now I’ve waited and been patient, but mayhap it’s been too long and my friend Frothi needs a reminder of what he still owes me. By Zenithar I swear I shan’t be cheated! You find him, and get me those bears.” 

“Where do we find Frothi and his bears?” Clesyne asked, straight to the point as usual. 

“Are we even sure those bears can, ah, perform?” I immediately realised my question was a stupid one to ask, even as Clesyne shot a quick glare my way. On second thought, my asking about their purported abilities just sounded… wrong. 

“To Oblivion with whether or not they can perform; in any case I’ve now got a customer here who wants real Skyrim snow bears, and we’ll by the Nine GET HIM SOME. AM I UNDERSTOOD?” Gods but Sal could bellow when the mood took him.

“Frothi is a Nord, obviously. He’s a tall one, around 6’ 7”. Blue eyes like just about every other Nord out there, and his hair looks like dull greasy ditchwater, smells about as bad too. I’ll be amazed if he’s taken his annual bath before now. Oh, and he’s got an evil looking scar down the right cheek, a really jagged red thing, starting from above his right eye. I remember when he got that — we thought he’d be likely to lose it then, all that blood coming from his face and him screaming like a boar in a bush; and may he yet lose that eye if he’s cheated me!” Sal glared at us both. We hastily made commiserating noises about the kind of misfortunes that ought befall anyone with the guts to try and “cheat me! Aemilius Salconius! How dare he! Cheat _me_!”

“Now last I heard of him, he was in Bravil, dicing, whoring and drinking like he normally does when he comes into Cyrodiil, that scummy flea-ridden _hrafnasueltir_ , about three weeks back now. So _get out there and find him and my bears!_ ”

No help for it. Clesyne and I made agreeing noises and got out. Ducking out the tent flaps, she and I looked at each other, any hopes of a nice rest and shopping gone. 

“Snow bears, he said?” I asked my sister, still not daring to believe what I’d just heard. “The type that up about 8 feet tall on their hind legs, are notoriously fierce, ttt…territorial and kill with a single paw swipe; _those_ bears?”

Clesyne made an agreeing noise, her brow furrowed over in thought; then went “huuh?” before turning her head to look at me, startled, before chiding me with “Bears don’t reach 8 feet tall, even when standing, silly. Don’t make it sound worse than it really is.”

“Is Sal _cck_ -completely inss- _sane_?” I couldn’t help but think this job was going be worse trouble than the one time we ran a consignment of limeware across the border… 

My sister shrugged. “The boss hath commanded, we peons must needs do. As usual.” 

We had a very cold trail to follow and not much information to go on, apart from Sal’s rather colourful description. The only sure things I could see in my — and Clesyne’s — future was a lot of cold hard beds, more horseback riding on backcountry trails, mud, rain, heat and camp food in all its inedible glory. Joy.

Have I mentioned how much I HATE surprises?

  


* * *

  


We didn’t set off after Frothi _immediately_ , of course. Indeed we would have to, and soon — certainly no later than tomorrow afternoon or the day after that at the outside, or Sal would likely be wroth; but we would have at least one good night’s sleep in a bed before we were back on the road again. We also needed to replenish our supplies and repair our armour and weapons, which had seen a fair bit of use in recent days. All these necessities ensured our steps were turned towards the Market District.

Securing a room in the _Merchants’ Inn_ took no time at all. Velus Hosidius, the publican was glad to see us again, semi-regular customers that we were. He hadn’t the time to linger in small talk however; it was Morndas and nearly evening, when a crowd of the City’s merchants were due in for their dinners: he was justly distracted from potential gossip preparing for the evening crowd. After a short discussion, I left Clesyne tucking into a large bowl of piping hot fish and barley pottage, with fresh wheat bread, sweet wine vinegar in herb dipping oil and a soft cheese to go with it all. 

My next destination was to the weaponry store next door. I was halfway to the door, when a muffled exclamation came from behind me, accompanied by the clatter of utensils on tableware. The sound made me grin and shake my head as I turned around to confirm my suspicions. 

Sure enough, Clesyne had been bolting her meals, again — and getting her mouth burned, yet again. She should’ve remembered, really — the food here was hot, in more than one sense. Velus’s cook, Zenithar bless her, kept a firm hand on her kitchen and its staff: all meals were to be served fresh and hot. Uncommonly for an Imperial, she employed peppers in many of her dishes with a liberal hand alongside the more common herbs, firmly believing that it aided the digestion and warded off illness. That might be true, and the results surprisingly tasty, particularly for spice-lovers who didn’t mind some heat in their food, or the gastronomically adventurous. For the unprepared, or those who preferred less exciting cuisine however, it must feel very much like sticking one’s tongue into fire after a few swallows, particularly when the dish in question was hot from the pot. 

Watching Clesyne flailing and diving, half-blinded by tears for the closest mug of water or phousca, I couldn’t repress the fit of giggles that erupted. Clesyne must’ve heard me somehow, even over the increasing noise in the inn, or perhaps it was sisterly intuition, because the scowl she shot directly at me looked truly devilish, her red face and tearing eyes adding to the impressiveness of the glare. 

I quickly darted out the door and decided to stay out a little later than I’d said earlier. My twin could handle the usual bartering and haggling for food items with Velus just fine without me there to get in the way of her charms — assuming her tongue hadn’t gotten burnt enough to make talking a chore by the time she finished dinner. 

I simply couldn’t resist one last dig while on my way out however. “Tell Velus to save me a bowl of that, Clesyne! It looks _delicious_!” 

  


* * *

  


Now normally, between myself and my sister, we could just about manage the majority of basic repairs to our armour and weapons — knocking out dents, polishing and sharpening our swords, replacing leather straps and suchlike, but it’d been a while since our gear had seen proper care by a smith. _A Fighting Chance_ was — and still is reputed one of the best places in the City for acquiring weapons, blades in particular; and its Redguard proprietor, Rohssan, well known for her talents with mending and creating armour. Her wares and services did not come cheap, but one gets what one pays for. 

I’ll admit here that my interest wasn’t purely in seeing our gear fixed though. Rohssan was at the top of my list of friends, what few of them I had left here. I’ve been proud to call her friend for the better part of a decade now, and it _had_ been a while since we’d last seen each other.

I entered the shop to find Rohssan behind the long wooden counter that dominated the trading floor, clad in her usual iron cuirass, leather greaves and boots. Rather more precisely, I heard Rohssan was within before I actually opened the door; hammering steel and iron was noisy work easily heard through stout doors, and my friend’s usual gear was hardly suited to silent motion. I’d asked her once why she felt the need to go armed and armoured in her own shop, considering that Cyrodiil’s summers could be ferociously hot. Her response had been a hearty laugh. “Doesn’t every store need advertising to get its name out there? I’m my own best display, see?” Oh indeed, Rohssan cut a fine figure in armour; steel shortsword by her side, striding around the Market District every night browsing the displays, talking with passersby — and not so incidentally showing off the beautiful fit and good quality of her armour and blade. 

Given the Market District’s proximity to the Arena and its crowds, one could be sure that there were many interested eyes following her on her rounds, and not all of the focus was on the armour either. My friend might be getting up there in years now, even if her Redguard heritage kept the fine web of lines around eyes and mouth from showing too obviously. Her work however had shaped her body as finely as her hands wrought armour links. Men deep in their cups around the City were known to remark how her silver-grey hair complemented her armour. 

“Arliene! Welcome! It’s been nearly a full season since I last saw you, you little rascal. Where’ve you been?” Her dog, who was down on the shop floor, whined and thumped his tail in greeting. I took the dog’s presence to mean that business must’ve been slow this evening — the mutt was a fierce animal who didn’t take kindly to strangers despite his growing age, displayed in his greying tan coat. It’d taken me nearly a year (and several nasty bites) before he’d warmed up to my presence. Rohssan generally kept him confined to the living quarters upstairs and out of mischief, despite many jokes about how she should set her dog on some irritating customer. Clesyne wouldn’t go into Rohssan’s shop for much the same reason: my sister has a fear of dogs, particularly the larger breeds.

“ _Little_? I’m not _little_ , dammit! I’m a perfectly re-ress-peckable height for a Breton!” Really, my remote ancestors were highly inconsiderate way back when passing down their bloodlines. Would it have ruined things to at least have passed down more of that merish height, and spared their descendants persistent neck aches forevermore from craning upwards to look at most other humans and mer? “Anyway, to answer your question — here, there, lots of p-places elsewhere. Morrowind is fairly large — more so than Cyrodiil, you know.”

Rohssan snorted. “Oh yes, and full of trouble, as usual. News is Houses Dres and Hlaalu have given up slavery and freed the beastfolk.” I nodded. “Good! Still, I can’t imagine that went over well with the other Great Houses?” 

We spent an hour exchanging personal gossip and going over the latest news and rumours out of that troubled province; even after centuries under the influence of the Empire, the vast majority of that province retained its own traditions, laws and culture, paying only lip service to the Imperial rule. A wild and beautiful land in its own way, as harsh and unforgiving as the Dunmer themselves could be. And if I was tired enough that I garbled my words in the telling — well, Rohssan was used to it, and could understand me well enough, belike. 

It’s a rare thing that I don’t have to repeat myself for the sake of anyone listening. Rare, precious, warming, to speak and be heard and understood, accepted so easily. A friend like that is hard come by, particularly in the case of a Redguard befriending a Breton. The gods witness that our peoples have never really been very friendly.

My friend clucked at the state of my chainmail cuirass. It was admittedly a sorry sight: a great number of the links were broken, dented or outright missing, the leather unders ripped in places. “Great Leki! What did you _do_ to your armour?” 

“Me? Nnn-nothing. Except have a cliff racer or three happen to it while we were on our way home.” 

There’d actually been a whole swarm of them descending out of the clear blue sky, right as we were about to come in sight of the Imperial fort in Septim’s Gate Pass; Clesyne and I had been hard pressed to get away from the lot. My twin had not been wearing armour that day; she lost her favourite shirt, and very nearly her life, when her shield spells shattered under repeated dives from the flying hellspawn. I’d had to throw myself atop her, covering the both of us with my shield and tumbling into the midst of a bunch of nearby rocks to ward off a second and third pass from the nasty buggers. Thank Magnus and Kynareth for Restoration spells and potions. 

I’d managed to get us closer to the fort, half-carrying poor Clesyne, ducking behind rocks and doing our best to avoid the repeated attacks. By then, seeing as we were almost on top of their outer sentry posts at that point, the Legionnaires finally bestirred themselves to assist in driving off the gigantic winged menaces that were now presumably coming too close for _their_ comfort. The Legionnaires then brought us into the shelter of the fort proper, where the resident priest-healer of Kynareth could see to my sister’s wounds. 

It was fortunate the healer, a native of the province, knew well what he was doing, and had long familiarity with the exotic diseases of Morrowind. In the course of his examination he’d found Clesyne had contracted helljoint, presumably a last parting gift from that cliff racer I’d slashed off her. The fort commander graciously allowed us to rest there for a few days, in apology for his men’s “tardiness in rendering assistance to Imperial citizens”. It was just as well he did, because Clesyne started showing signs of the helljoint within hours of the attack despite the healer’s attempt at prevention after the fact, and was completely miserable as a result. Once she was fit to travel, we’d then more or less limped back into Cyrodiil, getting to Cheydinhal in the trading caravan of a mostly unwelcoming Khajiit merchant, and then making our own way home to Imperial City, pride and resources well dented into near non-existence by the local wildlife of Morrowind. 

It’d been a long three months, certainly. It might not have been what I’d imagined for my life in the beginning, but I did love my job with Sal. Still, the things he sent us out for sometimes… I had to question whether it was worth it. Especially with this latest madness with _bears_ of all things!

Rohssan let out a low whistle, silver head shaking in disbelief. “Well my friend, you’ve been amazingly lucky, you and your sister. Those beasts are formidable, as you’ve discovered for yourselves.” 

“I know. My luck in these things has been in-cre-di-b-ly” I stumbled a bit on the word, which had too damn many consonants, “good, fff-for some reason.” I smiled sourly at her. Lucky to survive the attack mostly unhurt, but not quite so lucky in what came after. The blasted Khajiit caravaneer had demanded extortionate fees for allowing us to join his party, citing our disreputable appearances, the continued need for Clesyne to rest — taking up space in his wagon that could’ve held more goods — and inability to contribute to the business of his caravan. I’d tried to haggle a better price with the ragged-eared swindler, but to little avail; and the final price I reached severely drained our remaining funds, since much of our supplies and possible trading items had been lost in the cliff racer attack. 

Divines, I was glad to see the back of that lout when we left the caravan at Cheydinhal. Either Clesyne or I would have to meet Sal later and claim reimbursement from him before we left to chase Frothi, or we’d be leaving a fair few debts behind us tomorrow. And as any experienced adventurer can tell you, leaving debts unsettled behind you anyplace is never a good thing. Just thinking of such a thing made my teeth itch.

Rohssan was still examining my armour — she’d moved on from the cuirass and gauntlets to the greaves and helmet, which were in slightly better condition, but not by much. Mouth pursed, she looked me directly in the eyes. “I can repair these, but it _will_ be expensive, and the strength of the joins and the armour as a whole won’t ever be the same. You know as well as I do that you would be better off getting a new set, really — I do believe I managed to teach you that much.” 

I was afraid she’d say that. 

“All ww- _right_ , so the cuirass is a lost cause. But can you destroy —” here I stopped, breathed in and out, once, twice, without looking up, ” — can you _restore_ the rest of the armour?” I held my breath. With our ready funds being as low as they were, we’d had to dip into our emergency stash more than once over the last week. I could afford a new leather cuirass, but not a full set of new armour.

Dark eyes sparkled back at me. “Oh I reckon I can. After all, if I say I can’t fix it, _it ain’t broke!_ ” I couldn’t help but laugh at the time-worn sales line. My old master was truly one of the kindest persons in my acquaintance. 

“When can I pick up my armour?” I asked Rohssan. “Man m-nn-needs finding; owes Sal a hair of bb- _bears_.”

“ _Bears_?” Rohssan’s eyes were wide. “Now that sounds like a story worth hearing.” 

“Bears! Yeah, Skyrim snow bears,” I groaned. “ _Duh-dd-tuh-_ Two of them. Can you believe it?” 

Rohssan merely grinned. “I’ll want to hear the full story when you get back.” The grin morphed into a full belly laugh. “Knowing you, I’m sure it’ll be even more interesting than it is now, by then.” She sobered, though snorts still escaped her at intervals. If I knew her, she was probably picturing me face to face with a bear, trying to ‘make nice’. “Bears. Those sound dangerous, it’s even worse knowing the kinds of people Salconius has you chasing every so often.” She stroked the pieces of cuirass on her worktable. “Now I’d provide you with a cuirass myself, but, well — you know I’ve been focusing on swordsmithing nowadays, and all I have on hand at the moment armour-wise are heavy pieces, which you’re no good with.”

“Can I make an order for a ss-su — set?” It was getting harder to concentrate on speaking without yawning or slurring, for some reason. I must be even more tired than I’d thought. 

“You could, but you’re going after this man and his bears soon, yes? I’ve orders down in the books clear through to Frostfall at least. You know, the Emperor’s Birthday celebrations; poncy nobles like new blades to show off at the parties, Leki knows why.” 

How _could_ I have forgotten? The Emperor’s Birthday was indeed only a little over two months away: one of the biggest social events of the year, and anybody who was somebody likely to be invited to the Palace festivities would not be caught dead in less than their best, be it silks or ironmongery. The tailors, armourers and weaponsmiths would be busy with orders by now. It seemed I’d have to patronise the store of the two other renowned armoursmiths in the City, since they were more likely to have partially ready pieces to offer. 

“Looks like it’s Mmm-Maro for me.” I tried not to sound too put out and failed. The thought of it alone made me grimace; the pair who owned the shop I’d be visiting had an highly — idiosyncratic relationship most people would rather avoid. Rohssan reached over to ruffle my hair, and I batted her hand away. 

“Good luck with those two tomorrow; _The Mystic Emporium_ has a discount on healing potions this week, I hear.” 

“No funny,” I grumbled.

“ _He_ has been asking about you, you know. He’s never stopped no matter how many times I put him off.” Rohssan’s words derailed our topic and my thoughts, and I blinked and stared much too long perhaps, before understanding who she was referring to. “How much longer do you intend to keep avoiding him? You’re being unfair to me, asking me to run interference, and most unfair to him.”

“I — I’ll see him. P-puh-prromise.” 

Rohssan merely sighed. “You’ve said that, for how many years now?” She came out from behind her worktable and gave me a hug. “Think about it, won’t you? It’s long past time you fixed things between the two of you. You can’t hope to dodge him forever.”

It was now late into the evening, past Rohssan’s usual closing time; I bade her goodnight and farewell, heading back next door for my turn at a hot meal. As expected, Clesyne had managed to charm Velus into giving us good deals on dried foodstuffs as well as herbs, so we were set on that front. 

I headed up to my room after dinner, where I bundled up the scraps of the ruined armour, mentally calculating the price that I might be able to get for them on the morrow. We weren’t absolutely hurting for money, as yet; but if there was anything our childhood experiences had taught us, it was the value of coin, and our excursion to Morrowind had dropped the weight of our money pouches to a level I wasn’t comfortable with. I reflected that had we the time, I might just be able to mix up some potions to sell; those were always a quick source of money compared to the cost of producing them. Still, that was something to look into later. For now, all I wanted was my pillow and a thick blanket, which I proceeded to bury myself under after snuffing the candles.

  


* * *

  


I woke early the next morning, scoffing down a hot roll and buttered egg with small beer before running out the door, armour scraps rolled up and tucked under my arm. Thanks to my early start, I did manage to catch Maro Rufus almost as soon as he opened _The Best Defense_ for business. I needed a new cuirass, and quickly, and I would rather sacrifice more time in a snug bed to beat anyone else in line for the armourer’s services: proper armour fittings, even when working from partially prefabricated pieces took lots of time. The resident smith and master armourer Gin-Wulm was nowhere to be seen as usual when I got there. 

I let Maro know my intentions in patronizing his business today, as we haggled over the precise amount the scraps of my old set of armour was worth. The Colovian smith was much pleased by the prospect of incoming gold. The fitting for the front and back pieces of my new cuirass, as well as the leather laces that would hold them together took several hours as expected amidst tedious measurements, notes and discussions of metal rings as opposed to leather laces, lamellar armour as opposed to scale, linen thicknesses, rivets and the quality of the leather, and the processing involved. Our discussions were regularly punctuated with hilariously snide comments from the other side of the shop, and more entertainment in the form of the colours Maro’s face took on with each quip or sting from his business partner. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t give back as good as he got: Varnado’s expressions of disgust were amusing to behold on receipt of a telling shot.

There _had_ been a moment when I’d thought I might have soon cracked a rib though: Maro had yanked on the laces a tad too roughly, reacting to a certain comment that was rather more inflammatory than I’d heard yet. The quilted gambeson I had on did its work, but “too tight to breathe” is a far cry from “well-fitted, if stiff”, and I’d had to signal Maro in a hurry to loosen the straps. 

Not for the first time, I wondered just how Varnado had convinced Maro (or had it been the other way around?) to set up business together in the first place, considering how they apparently detested each other’s specialty — and how long it might take before murder occurred. Granted, since they’d both been in business together long before I arrived in Imperial City for the first time and blood had yet to be shed, perhaps the antipathy the two displayed towards each other might not be quite as bad as it seemed? Judging from Gin-Wulm’s long-standing avoidance of the two others who shared the premises however, that assumption was likely unfounded and the antipathy very, very real.

Still, it was a relief when I was done with the fitting, and I could escape the shop with a sore arm (courtesy of Maro’s repeated thumps and admonishments to “stay still!” at my ill-repressed humour), uncracked ribs, and a sack containing the new boiled leather and linen cuirass: not quite as protective as my old chainmail, but it would have to do, considering the limited funds and time I had. At least I did manage to persuade Maro to add a heavy shoulderpiece to the cuirass: it reinforced my neck, back, and front. More importantly, in conjunction with the lead strips cunningly sewn into the front and back seams, the stiffness of the shoulderpiece would weigh my movements down in key places to something approaching what I would achieve with mail; a necessary feature since I didn’t have the time to get re-accustomed to moving properly in leather, which though not light, was still much lighter than my customary chainmail. Dying from a missed stroke on an enemy was not on my list of things to do in any foreseeable future.

Clesyne had gone off to argue with Sal about our funding, which was likely to take a while. The items we were meant to have brought back from Vvardenfell had been partly damaged, thanks to the bloody cliff racers; the question now was how much of our pay Sal was going to dock for that mishap. Knowing that my armour fitting was likely to be long, barring good fortune, we’d planned to return and meet up at the inn again at two hours past noon. I judged that I still had some time to kill before I could go pick up the rest of my armour from Rohssan. 

Wandering about the Market District, taking in the various sights and sounds of citizens hurrying along to wherever they were going seemed as good an occupation as any, and I could hope that the fresh air might stave off the slight headache I’d gotten from the smells in _The Best Defense_. That was part of the reasons why I’d not have made a very good armourer: the smell of curing leather made me ill. 

Glancing at a large, colourful poster advertising the latest Arena fights between the Blue Team and Yellow Team, I noted that Agronak gro-Malog was still the reigning Grand Champion. I grinned at the poster, remembering the only time I’d met the man in person, courtesy of the friend of a friend of a friend who worked in the Bloodworks, a few years ago. His manners made a deep impression, his skills, displayed in the Challenge match which won him the title of Grand Champion of the Arena even more so. Agronak had seemed a friendly sort, courteous and kind as a good nobleman should, even if he were only, as word had it, only the bastard son of a nobleman — and the very devil in a fight. 

Wandering further I remembered I had some minor items to trade in at _Jensine’s_. One long and very hard haggling session later, we managed to agree on a price for my things. I congratulated myself on actually managing to get the better of her for once! I still found it hard to believe Jensine was a full Nord; her haggling skills would do any Breton or Khajiit merchant I knew proud. The only other around who drove an even harder bargain would likely be Palonirya, the Altmer clothier. 

That done with, and coinpurse a little heavier than when I walked in, I went back to the inn, only to find that Clesyne still hadn’t returned. Oh dear. It seemed Sal might be a lot more intractable than we’d thought. Bit not good. It wasn’t anything I could help with however, since Clesyne had always been the better socialised of the two of us, and consequently dubbed the charming twin — my going over to help reason with Sal would probably backfire. I ate a quick lunch, then went to pick up my repaired armour from Rohssan. I didn’t linger there — she had a truly demanding idiot of a customer to please, from the looks of it; and the lines around my old master’s mouth were tightening with each passing minute the fool went on. I got out before the inevitable explosion of temper occurred.

I drifted along in the noon crowds, thoughtless, moving from the Market’s precincts, to the outskirts of the Arena, and thence to the Arboretum’s vast gardens and marble forae, where politicians met to discuss issues of state and the philosopher-teachers argued Divines-knew-what with their students and each other in the sunshine, and then back again into the Market District. Gradually I realised that my footsteps had taken me to a place I’d frequented oh-so-very often, many years ago, as I paused before the doors of _First Edition_. Even now the familiar signboard, blazoned with the icon of a book, made my heart leap with longing for the tomes and collected wisdom behind those doors. 

I could feel my gut beginning to tighten, as though I were about to go into a fight. I squeezed my eyes shut and blinked them open again, looking at the signboard. 

No change. The book icon, so familiar, seemed taunting in the light of the afternoon sun.

Why did I still hope there would be, after so long? And yet… I pushed the doors open, and walked in, my first step into a bookstore after seven long years.


	3. Chapter 3

[](http://imgur.com/IbnIzsW)

Stepping into _First Edition_ ’s trading floor felt almost like stepping back into a happier time. I lingered in the patch of shadows by the doorway, taking in the room quickly, noting changes that had occurred since I was last here. 

The two large bookshelves that dominated the wall closest to the entrance, facing the counter, still held the odd few pieces of silverware Phintias prized: family heirlooms from Hammerfell, dated all the way back to the time of Tiber Septim at least. 

I then spotted a newer addition, one that made my breath catch for a heartbeat as I blinked back sudden tears: in pride of place on the next shelf, at the same level as his family silver, Phintias had set up a novice’s alembic, of the kind favoured by alchemical students the continent over; a very familiar one, somewhat battered by wear and time.

I had to force myself to look away from the shelf and its contents, and continue scanning the room, running through my calming exercises. _Breathe in, breathe out. Exhale and inhale_. Those exercises had been seeing all too much use lately.

The sight of the familiar dark wood shelves behind the counter brought on yet another rush of nostalgia tinged memory. In these shelves reposed a large array of common reference volumes and general reading to satisfy the most voracious bookworm. More importantly for seekers of knowledge and antique curiousities, they also housed a selection of Phintias’s rare bibliophilic finds, not to be sold for love or for money. However, he did not begrudge their loan, after a fashion: he didn’t mind if you wanted to read the books, so long as you handled them _very_ carefully, under his anxious supervision, and did not attempt to remove them from the shelves on your own, or even _breathe_ wrongly on a fragile page. 

Woe betide you if you handled a volume carelessly however — there is scarcely any way faster to put you in Phintias’s bad books. Phintias was a mild mannered soul, very polite, but even he had his limits, and he _was_ a true son of the Ra’Gada. Lest anyone doubt that fact: On my second visit to his store, a student from the Arcane University had attempted to handle one of his precious books with hands still stained by some noxious remnant of an experiment, that was like to spread onto the paper. The resulting roar of rage could be heard in the street through the thick stone walls, so the gossip ran; and of course no one could’ve missed the sight of the hapless young man being literally ejected from the premises via a boot to the backside, accompanied by a very loud diatribe on the proper care and handling of books. 

Needless to say I made extremely sure I was always clean and neat visiting his shop thereafter!

More volumes — newly arrived from other parts of the province, perhaps from even further away, were stacked on the long cluttered counter. I stifled a laugh. Phintias never did manage being perfectly neat with anything other than books, and age hadn’t improved him in that aspect. Smaller bookshelves covered the other walls, also filled with printed goodness. I took a good long sniff of the air, redolent with the unique scent of books and paper: musty, vaguely sweet and grassy, melding with the light honey perfume of the good beeswax candles that gave a mellow light to the many-windowed room. All in all the room still retained the impression of being a library, particularly since Phintias had a few comfortable chairs and a table readied in a corner, under one of the clerestory windows along the walls; a convenience for waiting customers to leaf through prospective purchases. 

Good old Phintias himself was there behind the counter, as usual. He’d picked up some more grey hairs, and his hairline had receded in truly alarming fashion in the years between then and now, but here he was, still quietly happy amongst his beloved books and wearing that ridiculous brown quilted doublet. Desert born and bred, used to the heat and shifting sands of the Alik’r, Phintias’d never quite felt at home with the much cooler climate of Cyrodiil, and would insist on wearing thicker clothes than the rest of us born to milder climes, never mind the fact it was Sun’s Height, one of the hottest months of the year. 

As he was somewhat distracted by a volume he had open in front of him on the lectern, with his head bent low over a page he was examining with a glass, he didn’t bother to look up as he launched into his standard new customer greeting spiel: “I’m Phintias, owner and proprietor of First Edition —” At this point he looked up with a practiced smile, which soon faded into a puzzled frown as he struggled to determine who I was. “Pardon me, dear lady, but have we met?”

I smiled at him — or tried to, since the muscles of my face felt frozen, even as I forced my shaking knees to move into the better light. I couldn’t tell if I’d succeeded or not, or what expression even was on my face; but it was unlikely to have been happy, given the expression on Phintias’s face, which was verging on mild alarm. Probably wondered if I were in distress. 

“You used to have to chase me out at closing t-time nearly every night for years, master Phintias. I nearly blew up your basement once, when I was ut-attem — _trying_ to help you with one of your alchemical experiments. And I can’t remember how many afternoons you sat me down at that table over there trying —” My voice cracked embarassingly at this point, as Phintias’s face paled under his dark complexion, eyes wide and wondering, mouth partially agape — “trying to drum Asliel Direnni’s _30 Basic Principles of Alchemical Combination_ into my head.” 

“No, it can’t be surely — Arli-girl, oh Arli, Arli, Divines, you — how —?” 

Looking back, it was a minor miracle that all that came out as amazingly smoothly as it did, given my emotional state. Rohssan might have been my first teacher and later my emotional bulwark and agony aunt through the greater part of a decade, but Phintias had been my mentor through the best years of my life; had seen me, my intellectual abilities fostered and cared for as surely as he tended his books. He’d encouraged my explorations of alchemy in his basement, pushed my mental horizons with brain teasers, word games and discussions of philosophy and history drawn from the volumes on his shelves. 

It was he who had encouraged me to give the fullest expression possible to my arcane talents, pushing me to join the Mages Guild and Arcane University despite his own reservations about magic. 

He’d been gleeful when we celebrated my making Journeyman rank in the Guild with rounds all around at the Merchants’ Inn, and the morning after a truly memorable night was probably the only time in its history that _First Edition_ had opened late for business.

Clesyne and I never knew our father — he left us before we were born, and our stepfather isn’t worth the spit it took to call him that. But I knew — know, that I did — do — have a pa all the same. 

And I’d left him wondering what had happened to the young coltish Breton girl he’d taken under his wing, who’d suddenly vanished after something the Guild had tried their damndest to cover up. Vanished without so much as a word, for seven long years, because I was so afraid I’d now be nothing but a disappointment to him. 

I’d hid, going along with Clesyne because she was older, was stronger at that point, and it was easier. Easier among people who didn’t know me from Before. Before, when I was a mage, a highly skilled one, and a rising star within the Guild. Before the Incident that took it all away and knocked my sense of who I was flat and smashed it into pieces. Before I lost my magical skills. Before I lost an integral part of myself, something that defined my earliest memories. Before abstract spell diagrams and books and scrolls stopped making sense for me.

Before I kept losing my words. 

Right now, however, Phintias was in front of me, face blank in shock, in disbelief that the prodigal had finally returned to him. Minutes passed without a reaction and I could feel what courage I had in coming here begin to shrivel. I took a step backwards to the door. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake, shouldn’t have come here —

He broke the silence first. “You cut your hair.” His voice, normally strong and even, was quavering noticeably. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak and not ruin it all. Right now all Phintias knew was that I’d gone, not why —

“Oh Arli. Silly goose. Come here.” He spread his arms wide in welcome, much as he had for a young 19 year old girl, more than 10 years ago. I went, and as I felt his warm arms closing around me, I broke down and cried like a baby, babbling all the while. I’d missed this shop, missed him and the comfort he gave, like the sharp ache in a hollowing tooth, and the hurt was just leaching out now, after almost a decade. 

He held on to me, even as he locked the doors and pulled me towards the corner with its chairs and low table, rocking me gently, and didn’t stop, making soothing noises and tangling his fingers through my short loose combed hair, much as he had all those years ago. 

“I can’t. Can’t. Not anymore. Can’t. No nore words. No —” _books_ , I would have said, but what came out instead was _hooks_. “Can’t _bead_. Can’t pen proh-properly either — dound zo _s-s-s-stupid_ —!” I screamed, short, ugly, strangled, much as my thoughts were strangled by my accursed damage. “Me. Cursed. Always. _Punished._ ” I looked up into his face and promptly buried my own back into his broad chest, even as I felt a tear fall into my hair and trickle along my scalp. Bad enough I was bawling; I didn’t want or need to see him cry, too. 

“Shh, shh. Shhh. I know, I know all of it. Don’t cry, little bird. You’re not cursed. Certainly not divinely punished.” I drew back from him in surprise. 

“You… knew?” 

Phintias’s smile was sad. “I did. Come now, did you really think Rohssan wouldn’t finally have told me after I pestered her for information, as free-brother to free-sister? I’ve known what happened to you for some years now.” 

I was a total fool. Of course. Of course he’d have known eventually; I’d only avoided him but I hadn’t changed my name or appearance nor made a serious effort to go to ground, and he did have an extensive network of contacts at his disposal. And there was Rohssan’s and his shared links to the _a’mazihe_ , a fellowship comprised of Redguards of the Lhotunic persuasion. In any place where the Redguard diaspora had settled, _a’mazihe_ were to be found, their members widespread through Tamriel. I’d likely been watched over from afar and not known it, and the thought brought on a fresh bout of tears as my legs crumpled under me, Phineas grunting as he steadied my descent.

Phintias sighed as he got us both up, releasing me once he’d plopped me into a chair, but not before giving my shoulders a firm squeeze. I heard him hurry away and up the stairs as I struggled to control my breathing, which was well into the hiccoughing stage now. Pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, I rubbed my face hard. The usual aftereffects of a crying jag — stuffed nose, itchy eyelids and general discomfort in the cranial region — were making my head pound even worse. It felt good though, in its own way; the estrangement I’d chosen had wounded me more than I realised. To have it over and done with now was cleansing. It was a heady feeling, this new lightness. 

More bustling about behind me, the sounds of water sloshing about. Soon, a large brass basin of water arrived, lightly scented with peppermint. I looked up as it clunked down on the table in front of me, still feeling light-headed — I chose not to look at Phintias just yet, even as he tossed me a small washcloth, which landed in my lap, before moving away again. 

A little while later the delicate clink of china heralded a pot of tea arriving, with two cups and saucers. At this point I decided I’d have to stop ignoring Phintias’s presence: it was bad manners verging on insult, ignoring a Redguard being hospitable. I lifted my head up from where I’d been staring at a spot on the ground, and immediately noticed he’d changed out of the brown doublet for a burgundy shirt. Oh. Right. I’d messed up his clothing. I felt my cheeks flame, and again cursed my distant ancestors for the Breton pale complexion, which notoriously showed a person’s embarrassment at the drop of a hat. 

He snorted, likely deducing the cause of my sudden blush. “Ah, wash your face girl. Haven’t I told you before you shouldn’t cry? You haven’t the right colouring for it; makes you look horrible when you’ve been bawling something awful.” My answering chuckle might be clogged still with more snot and tears, but it felt good to laugh with him; yet another thing I’d missed. 

“I’m sorry.” 

An eyebrow tilted upwards. “Now what are you sorry for? My doublet’s lasted this long; I doubt any amount of your tears or snot soaked in it will destroy it now. It just needs a wash and it’ll be good as new, see?” He was being deliberately facetious about it; it was obvious how his smile didn’t reach beyond the bare upturn of his mouth. 

“Not — not that, not just the skirt —” _Damn!_ — “ _shirt_ , I mean, oh Nine help me…” I couldn’t help clenching my fists; it was that, or throw things, or scream, and my throat hurt enough I seemed a veritable bullfrog judging from sound alone. I stopped at his raised hand.

“Shh. Don’t, not right now. I _do_ want to know, in your own words, why you thought you should stay away, never mind why it took you seven years to come back — ” here his expression, unusually open, showed a deep hurt, and the guilt cascaded over me again — “but not right now. You sit quietly and drink your tea, and then we’ll start over, shall we?” 

The tea was strong, black, very sweet and made more potent with the inclusion of a good shot of Colovian brandy, if I had the scent and taste aright. I savoured the burn and warmth as the drink went down and hit my stomach, and then stared into the bottom of the cup. The silence was warm, a cloying breathing thing around us until Phintias cleared his throat. 

“Rohssan explained some of what happened to you. Just — _why_ did you leave in the first place, why stay away for so long?” There was something plaintive about the question, and I had no defence, really; it’d been much too long, and the only truthful reasons here I could give was that I’d been a coward and running. 

“Why stay when tt-there was nothing left?” I spoke slowly, trying to get my words out of my uncooperative mouth. “I was… afraid. Afraid you’d be different now, because I was, am. Afraid you’d pity me for being broken. You did so much for me, helped so much.” I paused. “You broadened my mind, you know? All these — “, waving a hand at the bookcases, “and… I couldn’t enjoy them together with you, like we used to.”

Phintias looked pained but resolute. “I never got the chance to try, did I?” 

I looked at him, feeling absolutely miserable. What could I say? How could I explain? “No. At first I d-didn’t want you there to see me like that. Those injuries — awful. No one knew just how I lived. People died. _I_ should’ve died, so everyone told me when I woke up six months after. Said was — amazing. I say curse. You didn’t see the first few months, that first year after — how I struggled to even make myself understood.” He looked as though he were about to say something before I cut him off. 

“Believe me, you wouldn’t have friend me when I first woke up, after. Hell, _I_ didn’t like me either. Mood swings worse than a pregnant woman. I’d be angry, then depressed for no reason. Nothing said around me made sss-sense for long, my ff-focus was so bad. Hands shaking all the time. Could hardly do anything for myself.” I saw his eyes dart from my face to my right hand, which was trembling noticeably at the moment and threatening to slosh tea into my lap, and back. I set the cup down, harder than I ought but my hand was starting to grow unwilling to respond, a familiar numbness in the limb creeping up again. 

“I tried to die, lots of times, you know? It was the only thing I knew at the time. I’d wake up and all I’d tt-tthhink of was how to try and die today. Hurt more people trying. My healers, my twin. They learned to lock up all the poisons and tie me to the bed after the third time. Every time it didn’t work, I just wanted… out.” 

My poor mentor was clearly only growing more and more horrified as I went on, but I found suddenly that I couldn’t care. Something dark and mean in me was actually enjoying the shock on his face. He wanted to know everything? Wanted to share in my misery? He damn well _would_ by the time I was done, more than I’d even told Rohssan, and welcome to it! I had to pause for breath here, before shouldering through. “ _Everything_ on paper stopped making sense; words and lettering looked like so many squiggles on a page, still do. You can’t understand what it’s like: normal one day, waking up the next all wrong and 6 months of life gone? I understood what everyone around me was saying here,” tapping my temple, “I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but talk and…” I trailed off, watching poor Phintias look as though all his beloved books had suddenly turned into dust on him. 

“Did Rohssan tell you? I only managed to speak as well as I do now in the last three years. People laugh and call me simple, because I fall the word I want in mm-midsentence. I’ve spent nearly tt-two years just relearning how to speak _full sentences_ in Cyrodiilic, never mind Bretic or Altmeris, and even now it’s still not quite right, may never be. I’ve spent just as long, l-longer, trying to how to read, and nothing. I have blank spots in my memory that won’t be filled.” I giggled. Finally letting loose was being like on a moon-sugar high of epic proportions. “Did you want to know just when and how I realised I couldn’t cast spells anymore? I tried to sat myself alike and realised I couldn’t speak the words and make the right gestures at the same time. I tried and tried and tried…” 

“Stop! ENOUGH!” 

I jerked back at the force behind the word. Phintias was on his feet, looking rather wild around the eyes. I shrank back from him — as he was, he looked more than a little maddened. He must’ve noticed then, because he lost all his fire and sagged back into his chair. “Enough. Please.” He was quieter now, older, saddened, weary; I felt all of three inches tall and equally fragile. Why had I lashed out at him? He didn’t deserve what I’d just thrown at him. I looked down at the floor, counting cracks in the flagstones, not daring to look further at him. Pity from him now, at the last, would be more than I could stand.

He reached across the small table, wrapping his large warm hands around my smaller, calloused ones, which were still fisted, to my numbed surprise. Prying my fingers loose from their death clench, he tutted at the blood under my nails and in my palm, snatching up the washcloth and dipping it again into the by now cold wash water to wash the marks off. I kept looking at the floor even when he stood up to place my hands back into my lap. 

“Arliene. Girl, come on now, look at me.” He was openly pleading now but I simply couldn’t look him in the face. 

He said something else, but I only heard a buzzing in my ears. I might have gone on ignoring him, but couldn’t stop the relentless, if careful pressure around the side of my face, that tilted my chin up to face his. I stared back at him, searching for signs of— what? Pity? Anger? 

“Don’t be like that. Now, why you ever thought I might pity you is beyond me.” He surprised me and it showed. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever suffered this kind of head injury?” 

Dumbly, I shook my head no. He smoothed my unruly hair back from my face, and then further up the left side, tracing the bared path of the great scar there, the only physical reminder of the injury that had almost killed me. 

“Clesyne does.” My older sister, labouring under misplaced guilt for reasons obscure. It might not be often, but I’d surprised the flash of pity-filled guilt in her face often enough to be sure of what I was seeing, and, as I now realised, to resent her and everyone else who carried that look deeply. Just _how_ deeply, I hadn’t realised until now.

“Bah, Clesyne.” Phintias scowled. “That fool! I should tell her to save her pity for ones who need it, but I’ll not waste breath advising where it would be wasted!” He snorted again. “Pity, hah. _You_ ”, wagging a finger in my face, “don’t need that waste of time.”

“Do you know what I see in you, Arliene?” he asked. “I see a great rock outcrop in the desert. Scoured, cracked, battered by wind and sand and the summer cloudbursts, but still there, proud and strong all the same, a guide in the shifting sands.” He smiled, a paternal sort of pride that lit his face through the sadness. “Nothing to be pitied there, nor at all disappointing. You survived what should have killed you, and you’ve healed and learned to do without. Now you’re almost your old self again; and you did it on your own — no one could have learned to live again for you. You had to find out how yourself. You’ve found a new way to go on living. What else matters, in the face of that?”

What else, indeed. Life wasn’t about to get any easier, and surely Clesyne would give me a tongue-lashing when I returned for being abominably late now; but an old fear that had haunted me for years now was finally buried. Phintias saw _me_ for how I really was: not the broken me who threw frustrated tantrums, struggled for words and mangled them and couldn’t read her own name, in a world where nearly everyone was literate, but the Arliene stuck inside bars of flesh and blood, no simpleton.

I hugged him again, tight. No words were necessary for a long while after.

  


* * *

  


Clesyne wasn’t happy when I finally got back to the inn. That was all right; I wasn’t feeling all that good either. “Where have you been? Julianos’s eyes, it’s too late to set out and still reach Weye before dark — have you been _crying_?” I swatted her hand away from my jaw. Phintias had kindly supplied a diluted measure of healing potion to counteract the effects of my emotional outburst before I left him, but my eyes must be still visibly reddened, since Clesyne had actually noticed it. My dear twin was many things, but ‘highly observant’ is not a description I would apply to her most days.

I smiled at her to try and ease off some of her building protective tendencies. Didn’t work too well though, from the looks of it: she was still regarding me with suspicion and anger, presumably on my behalf. Elder of the both of us by a full night and a bit, and she never let me forget it. Bossy, bossy woman. I think it almost killed her to let me off on my own for 6 months, the first time I came to Imperial City. 

“Who was it?” Her voice was harsh and grating, obviously ready to haul off and maim whoever’d had the temerity to make me cry. 

My head gave an extra vicious throb. “Eh, no one. Prrobably a lll…little too much sun, thaas’ all, it’s Fiery Night tonight remember. H-had a bit of a headache on the way back from Maro’s — you know how he and his partner get in their shop, and it’s stuffy in there too, besides the curing leather stink.”

Clearly she didn’t believe me, because her face grew harder. I hastily added, “I think tt-t-that and the weather set it off. My head did rather pain earlier, but it’s died down some, so I’m all right, really. ” 

Clesyne’s jaw was clenched so hard I feared momentarily for her back teeth. Time to cajole her into more tolerable behaviour. “I’ll be fine with a bit more rest; it’s probably just all the travelling we’ve been doing lately, stress and lack of sleep you know?” I went slowly, as much to project assurance as to make sure my brain had no chance to tangle my tongue. Again with that guilty look on her face, not that I wasn’t above milking it for my own purposes. But really, the way she reacted, you’d think she’d _asked_ to be half eaten by cliff racers and carried home after. 

“You sure?” Divines, best head her off that track of thought. Clesyne in full mother-hen mode was not to be borne. I could just see her itching to tuck me into bed and force-feed me more soup and vile potions than I ever wanted to taste again, and worst of all, hovering inches from my bedside, waiting on me hand and foot and generally resembling the mythical Wrath of Sithis — implacable and unbudgeable. “Yes, I’m sss… sure! Trust me to know my own limits won’t you?” 

“When have you _ever_ known your own limits little sister?” 

Now, really, that was laying it on a bit thick. “Oi! Enough already! Not so little anymore, have you noticed?” 

My sister laughed. “All right, all right, I get it, you’re a big girl who doesn’t need her older sister looking after her.” 

I stuck out my tongue at her as she brushed my hair away from my face again. Why does everyone I know get the urge to play with my hair? I like my hairstyle as it is — people notice me less and ask fewer questions when my hair’s over most of my face, for one thing; and being mostly unmemorable is a _good_ thing in my line of work. “Answer me honestly though — _are_ you really well enough to travel tomorrow?”

I shut my eyes and thought hard, assessing what my body was trying to tell me. I wasn’t lying about having a headache, just its source and timing. Even before the accident, I’d been prone to frequent headaches; it runs in families, I’ve been told, and mother did use to have some very bad spells around her time of the month. 

In my case, my accident seemed to have caused what had been a fairly harmless, if irritating trait to worsen however. The occasional seizures from the initial damage had worn off after the first year, thank the gods, but the increased number and severity of the headaches was still a concern. The usual, minor ones were nothing, really — I could bull through those without benefit of pain relief or healing nowadays. It was the major ones I hated. Waves of nausea, terrible sensitivity to light and smells and not daring to move for fear of making everything worse. Each time it happened I’d be out for a good day or three, and slowed for a couple days after — meaning I’d be mostly useless for a week or so. 

“We’ll see, ‘Syne. If I’m to have one of my fits, we’ll know it by m-morning.” That didn’t make her any happier, but it was the gods’ own truth: my body was hardly a predictable machine these days. “Mmbut right now I’m hungry. Sss… shall we eat? Yyou can ttell me how things went with the boss over dinner. Is Sal very angry over the damage to his items?” I signaled the serving girl for a serving of the inn’s special for the evening: venison, boiled to near tastelessness and then baked in a pie with spiced root vegetables in a sort of mush. Less exotic than the previous night’s offering had proved, but good all the same. 

As it turned out, Sal _was_ angry, but our hard luck story had mollified him somewhat. Clesyne had even managed to sweet talk him out of docking our pay, meaning we got our full wages, so we weren’t going to be cash strapped for the short term. The supplies were ready, Clesyne had even gotten us horses so we’d not have to walk, and best of news, even got a lead on our quarry — the latest news was that he was still in Bravil. She didn’t say who’d given her our lead, and I knew better than to ask. My sister had dealings in low places that it were perhaps best I know nothing of, for her peace of mind and mine. 

The evening grew rather late, and I was beginning to long for the quiet of the upstairs rooms. The throbbing at my temples had been building all evening, from a nagging pinch to the characteristic tightening band around my skull, and I’d found it hard to summon the will to make conversation. As soon as I could, I escaped, saying that I was tired from earlier, and my sister made no comment. I could feel her gaze on my back all the way up the stairs however. 

Blessed silence filled the room as I shut the thick wooden door after me. Velus cared for the comfort of his patrons, and it showed in the little details, like the muffling enchantments on the door and walls. Snuffing all but a single candle, I filled the washbasin from the large ewer of water ready to hand, then added the blended sweet oils the healer had recommended in general against headaches and megrims like mine; the familiar scents of clove and lavender wafted into the darkened air as I swirled the water about. 

I washed my face and upper torso with the linens provided, longing for steaming hot water, instead of the tepid liquid I had. I wasn’t really in the mood to head down to the main room and request some, or even to ask Clesyne for help. To think, once upon a time I’d warmed my own bath water with nary a thought — but that was long gone now. I massaged my scalp and neck muscles vigorously, rolling my shoulders as I did so — they were knotted tight; and I could just about feel the warning signs of an impending massive headache arriving. 

I rummaged through my bags, pulling out a bottle that was about a quarter filled with the potion Sinderion had compounded for me a while ago, the then latest result of his ongoing efforts against my… unusual malady, and which I had to dose myself with quite regularly, about once every two weeks. I doubted it’d hold off the headache entirely this time, but it might be enough to keep me functional on the morrow. I calculated my current dosage against how much I was likely to need, and how long it might be before I could visit the alchemist again: a smaller dose would have to suffice for now. 

The taste, sadly, was no better than the last time. In fact I would’ve sworn that it was _worse_ than I remembered. What _had_ Sinderion put in there this round? Or had the potion degraded somehow, unlikely as it might be? Still, there was no doubt that it was at least mostly effective. Considering our potential routes, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for the nirnroots the mer was so obsessed with. I did still owe him about 40 or so samples of the root for his research, and there were some swamplands in the area, not to mention the banks and tributaries of the Niben close by I hadn’t searched. 

I drifted into sleep, imagining warm afternoons combing streams and marshlands, listening for the faint high chiming of nirnroots amidst the rush of water.

  


* * *

  


I woke up sometime in the night, unsure at first what had woken me up. Fuck, my feet and hands were _freezing_. My head then chose to give a hard throb, as if someone had stuck a huge needle into my eye, which soon became a vicious pounding through the rest of my head, which was spinning like I’d just come off a ten-day bender involving a massive quantity of skooma and strong drink. 

Rolling off the bed, my first coherent thought was to grab Sinderion’s potion, but my knees crumpled under me and I hit the floor hard, adding to my misery. Dull knives, throbbing through my head with my heartbeat like the world’s biggest drum, the pain beat a steady tattoo that made it hard to even think, much less move. Flashes of colour dotted my vision, bursts of colour in time with the pain.

A queasy feeling made my stomach flip, and I felt about for the chamber pot and retched into it, on hands and knees. A wet splatter on the floor made me aware that I had missed my mark in the dark, but I was too far gone to even care. The retching continued on and on, as my stomach purged itself of what felt like every meal from the past month. The purging just made my head hurt worse, however; and the increasing pain that felt like my head would explode from the pressure, simply made my stomach even more unsettled in a building cycle. 

My right hand and arm had felt like it’d gone to sleep, and it now gave way under me. I fell forwards and landed in a pool of something wet and foul smelling, which set my stomach off again, though all I could manage now were dry heaves, over and over that hurt even worse. 

I curled up right there, not caring, and prayed to all the gods and demons to please let me die; because life wasn’t pleasant enough to be worth facing this sort of indescribable pain.

The sounds of my moaning and vomiting must have woken up Clesyne at some point, because I felt her hand smooth down my back and up again in circles. I swallowed the saliva that had gathered in my mouth, and instantly regretted it as the pain shot up another notch, impossible as it had seemed. 

“M-make it stop!” I whispered, though I regretted it immediately. Even the movement of my jaw was enough to set off another round of pain and retching. The faint sound of Clesyne casting a spell brought it all to a matchless peak of suffering and I think I might’ve cried out, before everything went black and there was nothing left but the pain… 

  


* * *

  


I drifted back into consciousness, head still aching, but not as bad as it had been. I felt as though I’d been drowned in heavy syrup, weak, and dizzy. Wherever I was though, it was dim and cool, perfectly lovely and really, nothing was happening that needed me. I’d just close my eyes, rest a little longer…

  


* * *

  


I awoke again, finally mostly clear-headed after what seemed an eternity of fogginess. Cautiously opening my eyes, in case they were still sensitive to light, I saw not the flat beams of the room at the inn, but a vaulted ceiling, high and made of stone. Where was I and how did I get here?

I sat up with some difficulty, since I was still weak and shaky as a newborn foal, and looking about me, realised where I was. My brain obviously wasn’t up to much at the moment if it was still disoriented in these surroundings, considering how often I’d been a guest here. This was one of the healing rooms located in the great Temple of the One. 

The air smelled faintly of healing herbs and potions. The room was darkened by heavy drapes, which light from the windows on my left edged in brilliance, and the sole door was opposite it. A cupboard with a lock on the doors was to the right of my bed, with a larger table next to it. The bed I was in was narrow, but the bedding was clean and soft, and there was a tin mug and a pewter jug on a stand next to the bed, in easy reach.

I shifted a little, then knelt up on the bed to get within reach of the jug. I looked into the jug, and it proved to contain water; at this point I became conscious of the fact my mouth felt like a desert. Lifting the jug, and then steadying it with both hands felt like a titanic effort; the stream of water as I poured the jug’s contents into the mug visibly shook, and I spilled a fair bit out of the mug before it reached my mouth. I was glad for the water though.

I set the mug back down, thirst quenched for the moment. I ran over what I remembered of events: dinner with my sister, then the blinding pain that had happened later in the night. Clesyne must’ve knocked me out with the strongest sleeping spell she knew of, and brought me here to the healers. But if so, where was she? 

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, and set my feet on the floor, marshalling my strength, before carefully attempting to stand up. A sudden rush of vertigo made my head and vision swim in circles, before I fell forwards, clutching at anything close by on the way down. The impact was jarring, I’d sent something crashing as I fell, and I could taste blood in my mouth — I’d bitten my tongue. Owww. 

The door swung open and rapid footsteps moved in my direction, though I was too busy trying to persuade myself I was already the right way up to see who it was. All I saw were the hems of grey robes and a flash of sandals, before the person raised me off the floor and helped me back into bed. 

“Really Arliene, must you do this every time?” A deep raspy voice chided me, long familiarity taking the edge off of the asperity that coloured his tone. 

“I don’t, Jeelius. Really. I just thought I’d —” 

“Thought, _nothing_. The only thing you’ll be doing, until I or Tandilwe say otherwise, is to stay in that bed and rest.” 

“But Jeelius, Clesyne — where is she? I should find her, we —” A scaly digit wagged in front of my eyes, threateningly. I blinked, and the finger remained there.

“Ah-ah-ah! You’re not going _anywhere_ until I release you from my care, and _don’t_ even think of trying to sneak out! I’ve your things safely locked up where you can’t get at them, and the stables have been notified not to release your horse to you for another three days.” 

“Divines take it, Jeelius! What am I, your prisoner?” I was fuming and glared hard at Jeelius. Sneaky, bossy, meddling Argonian! Clesyne was out there on her own, and while I knew my sister could certainly handle herself on her own, the roads were dangerous for solo travellers, even the most experienced. I wanted to be out there, watching her back just as she watched mine, not stuck here for even longer growing fat and restless. 

Jeelius didn’t seem moved by my glare, and returned it, with interest. “You’ve been here for four days now; we had to keep you unconscious for most of the first three, because you were in too much pain otherwise, even if you don’t remember it. We feared that if we hadn’t, the strain on your body would cause a brain storm, or worse.” The Argonian priest’s face was set in a thunderous frown that only grew blacker with each word. “Whatever you were supposed to be doing can wait until you’re better. You need to rest here and recover your strength, Arliene, not go chasing after your sister across the length of Cyrodiil!”

I opened my mouth to argue, then thought better of it from seeing Jeelius’s expression. His skin was mottled redder than normal, a sign of his extreme irritation. Obviously he was not in a mood to negotiate the length of my stay, and any further argument would likely result in lengthening it, rather than the opposite. I knew better than to argue with a healer either — they were sneaky, devious people who could and would have you following their wishes, whether you wished it or not; and certainly not in his own domain.

Jeelius looked down at me from where he stood by my bed, satisfied he had the upper hand for the moment. “Are we going to continue this argument? Or will I have to call Rohssan here to talk sense into you?” Oh, that was blackmail. At least he likely hadn’t gotten wind I’d started reconciling with Phintias. I wouldn’t have been able to withstand both of them at once, and he knew it. I sagged back into the pillow, suddenly very tired.

“No, Jeelius, you won’t. I’ll do as you and Tandilwe say. If only to get out of here faster.” He snorted. “No offense, Jeelius, but I don’t like healing rooms at all. I eye too much of them as it is.”

“Ah, such thanks we healers receive! Your ingratitude wounds me to the core.” His grin took the sting from the words however. “Now, you must be hungry. We did get some weak broth into you at times over the last few days, but I’m sure we can do better than that now. How about some salted wheat porridge? With ground liver in it,” he added. 

“I’ll take the porridge, even if it mouth — _tastes_ like pap, knowing your cooking; but I don’t want any liver, that’s just _disgusting_!”

“Liver is good for you,” Jeelius remarked.

“Feed me anything with liver in it, and I’ll vomit it out on your shoes, don’t think I won’t,” I warned him.

“Now I know you really must be feeling better,” Jeelius’s laugh was a long, faintly hissing sound. “You only start arguing about what you’ll eat or won’t eat, when your head isn’t killing you anymore, I’ve noticed. Pity. I _had_ wondered if we’d manage to feed you more _liver_ broth while you’re here. What have you been eating? You definitely need strengthening and better food, you’re too thin.” 

I sputtered in outrage at his words. I did watch what I put in my mouth — I had to, considering certain foods and drinks would trigger my headaches, as far as I could tell. I didn’t need a bossy healer to tell me what I could eat!

“I have no expectations of _your_ cooking, since you’re still the only person I know who can burn water without effort; but didn’t your sister cook you anything while you were on the road? I can’t imagine she’d have liked going hungry for days.”

_“Jeelius!”_ I threw a pillow at him to stop his snickering. I might be a lousy cook, but I’d only burned water _once_! The damn lizard of a healer escaped through the door before I could send another missile after him, still laughing. 

“No liver, Jeelius! I mean it!” I hoped he heard me through the door, but it was probably unlikely. Still, he could try it if he wanted. He might sneak it into my food, but woe unto him if I found out — his God wouldn’t save him from the pranks I’d pull on him.


	4. Chapter 4

Jeelius and Tandilwe were both competent healers. This also meant they were the type who couldn’t stand seeing hurt or broken people and things without trying to do something about it. To put it less politely, they were inveterate meddlers. Well-meaning, to be sure, like the maiden aunts who’d helped raise Clesyne and me; but still meddlers. I felt like I was being smothered under the weight of their dual concern.

I was in the Temple healing rooms for another two days, before both Jeelius and Tandilwe declared themselves satisfied with my condition enough to let me travel. By this time I was already edgy and plotting ways out the Temple and escaping the duo’s tender mercies.

The two were also horribly naggy about my health and further care. I knew they meant well, but I was hardly a 10 year old who needed to be told to wrap up warmly! I had multiple lectures on “taking it easy” and “rest often, don’t try and push through the night!” and so on. The repeated lectures had grown horribly boring long before I could make my escape. 

J’mhad, who was a fairly knowledgeable healer in his own right, though he served mainly as groundskeeper for the Temple, merely shook his head at their attempts at cosseting. Not that he didn’t keep me to regular hours; the old cat was strict with his few patients in his own way. It however didn’t stop him from sneaking me treats in between the horrible tasting medicines and bland foods, with a wink and a twitch of his whiskers — as our usual agreement was. 

I was really going to have to figure out something nice to get him as a present, this Harvest’s End festival.

Once again, I made my way through the City’s districts, enjoying the warmth of the late summer sun. The days were still bright and fairly long this early in Last Seed, and the breeze was fresh as it blew in my face under an overcast sky. I bought a hot sweetroll from a street vendor and ate as I walked, enjoying the bursts of sweet honey with each bite, and taking in the crowds and snippets of overheard gossip as I passed. 

I noticed something was rather odd though; more whispers were flowing behind covered mouths than usual, even in the poorer boroughs, and the whisperers went absolutely silent when a member of the Imperial Watch went by. The mood of the City was nervous, but what about? So far I hadn’t heard anything unusual was on the horizon, and the City’s politics had been quiet, as far as I could tell; no murders or great scandals had come to light recently. 

I didn’t have much to go on though, and any speculation soon lost to other, more pressing issues. Clesyne had left word with the Temple, on the night she’d brought me there, that she was still headed out towards Bravil; and as no word had come back to say any different thus far in the week since, I was determined to meet her there. With any luck Frothi (and the bears) would be in Bravil, and our business with him would be swiftly concluded.

I was relieved when I reached the stables on the outskirts of the city; I had been fighting the urge to look over my shoulder for Jeelius or Tandilwe all the way from the Temple District. The nagging feeling that one or the other would appear and drag me back to a bed was haunting me like a bad itch that couldn’t be scratched. 

No overly-concerned healers showed their faces, though, and I claimed my horse without incident from the stables. Saddling, securing my tack, pack and saddlebags to the lovely chestnut mare my sister had left in the stables’ care was an unexpected joy: I was no great judge of horseflesh, but I could tell Clesyne had lucked out with this one. Once astride her back, I felt the thrill of setting out again prickle in my veins, more invigorating than cold water on a hot summer afternoon. 

Riding out over the great Talos Bridge that joined the City Isle to the banks of the Rumare, I noticed the increased presence of the Watch at both ends of the bridge, keeping an eye on the masses of people that flowed in both directions in and out of the City. They didn’t give me any trouble though, and I was soon across and amongst the lingering poor houses and shanties that clung to the shorelines and spread away from them in a stretch nearly a quarter mile wide. These poor livings were the true outskirts of the Imperial City, overflow from the City proper. 

I looked to the sky. What had been overcast, if mostly sunny weather was now a threatening grey — rain would be here by nightfall at the latest, and the late summer rains that extended into early autumn in Cyrodiil were cold and long-lived affairs, promising misery for man or beast caught out in it with no shelter. 

I thought that I could do with some more exercise in any case, and my horse seemed to agree, being as lively as she was; so I decided to push on to the small village of Weye, which was still some miles distant, and the first true independent settlement in the area around the Imperial City.

A light drizzle was already falling when I finally reached Weye, about an hour or two after leaving the Imperial City. Grey clouds scudded high above, as the wind, strengthening already began to drive the rain before it. 

I pulled up in front of the Wawnet Inn, the small, squat-looking two storey hostelry that mostly catered to west-bound travellers from the City, and paid the ostler to see that my horse was safely housed in the inn’s stables, with a little extra for her hay and some grain mash, then unsaddled her and removed my pack and the saddlebags. I then entered the inn proper, and not a moment too soon, because the rain finally came bucketing down, as it had threatened to all afternoon. 

Nerussa the publican was her usual enthusiastic self about wines. She queried me if I’d seen any of the rare Shadowbanish wine she was still missing from her extensive collection. When I admitted that I hadn’t been in Cyrodiil since our last meeting, making it impossible to look for the vintage, she was distinctly disappointed, but perked up when I renewed my promise to look out for it, should my journey take me near any more Legion forts.

There were few customers in the inn tonight, so I enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of the common room, which was warm, and watched the rain lash at the windows. Dinner was served at around 6 in the evening, a choice of Colovian-style barley and rabbit stew with rye bread, or mushroom and creamed rice with honey glazed carrots.

I went up to bed at around ten of the watch, hoping to gain an early start in the morning. Listening to the wind and rain whistle through the thatch, I wondered how Clesyne was doing, and whether or not she’d found our man by now. Snuggling down under the blankets, which were warm, if a tad scratchy, I shut my eyes and went to sleep. 

  


* * *

  


The weather had not improved greatly when I awoke the next morning, alas. The skies were still grey and drizzling, but at least the thunder and lightning had tapered off. 

I was not fond of the weather conditions either, but the sooner I got to Clesyne, the sooner things would be settled and we could browbeat Sal into letting us off on a vacation of sorts. 

I entered the stables and looked for my horse, which was in one of the end stalls. It seemed she knew me already, because she whickered as I drew near. I patted her nose and gave her a bit of carrot, which she delicately nipped from between my finger with a satisfied snort. I indulged myself and stroked her velvety nose one more time, and scritched her ears, before entering the stall to check her over and saddle up. 

Leaving Weye behind, I continued out onto the Red Ring Road, so called because it encircled the area surrounding Lake Rumare and the Imperial City, as well as the outlying settlements and villages in its influence. My goal here was to make for where it met the Green Road, which stretched away south and west along the Niben Bay towards Leyawiin. At the rate I could take my horse, I estimated it would be another day or two before I hit that meetpoint, assuming that the weather did not turn absolutely foul and force me to hole up somewhere in a lean-to. 

Still, it wasn’t raining heavily yet, and the light drizzle was almost like a cool mist, if rather a heavy one that made seeing into the distance somewhat difficult. There were worse weathers to be travelling in. 

I amused myself by trying to decide on a name for my horse; a passing Watchman eyed me rather dubiously, probably wondering what the Breton woman riding past him was doing, talking out loud to herself. “I can’t just keep name you ‘horse’. I’ll call you… ‘Chestnut’? No, that’s just uncreative — Clesyne would laugh herself sick. How about ‘Amber’? Do you think it sounds too grand? Or maybe ‘Rosie’, or ‘Bonnie’ — ?” My horse continued on at the smooth, mile-eating jog she’d dropped into not long after we left Weye. 

“I really should’ve asked the stablehands what they called you, girl. I’m afraid your new mistress isn’t the best with names.” A horsey snort greeted that admission, even as I slowed her pace to a brisk walk. We’d been riding for a solid two hours, judging by the sun’s position through the clouds; it would be a good idea to stop soon for a short break to rest my back and thighs, and some water and grazing for my horse. I recalled there was a small spring nearby, which would serve admirably.

The spring announced its presence in a clearing just off the road with a cheery blurble of moving water. I dismounted, and slid the saddlebags off my mare, rummaging about for the dried biscuits and a waterskin. I then led my horse over to the runoff from the spring, and tethered her securely to a nearby tree. I left her with enough slack so she could drink and crop at the grass, which was long and just beginning to turn a faded yellow-green. 

I stretched and walked about the small clearing, working out the kinks and restoring feeling to my back and hindquarters, which were just starting to feel mildly sore. Sitting down under the same tree I’d tied my horse to, I munched on the biscuits and then took a long pull of water, stale, warmed and tasting a little of the leather skin it’d been in. 

The sun came out from the clouds it’d hid behind most of the day, and the woodland clearing, still damp from the rain sparkled in its beaming light. I stared idly at one large drop of rainwater, trembling like a large liquid diamond, hanging on a wayward blade of grass. Plop!

“Heya, horse. How about I call you Crystal, hmm?” I asked the red mare, who had wandered back into my reach, and was now contentedly munching on the grass she could reach, flanks gleaming in the sunlight. A nicker was all the answer I got. 

“Crystal it is, then.” I grinned and reached up to pat her flank, only to stiffen. Crystal’s ears were pricked up, twitching; her muscles under my hand were tense and quivering, obviously ready to bolt. Cautiously, I kept close to Crystal, trusting her bulk to shield me from the sight of whatever might be approaching. I worked to quickly untether her, even as I slowly loosened and drew my sword from where it was stowed with the saddlebags.

“This one suggests you drop your weapon if you value your life,” the Khajiit bandit rasped from across the clearing. The male, young but quite tall for his species and form, had an arrow nocked, aimed and ready to fire in my direction. 

Well, _shit_. 

“Can’t we discuss tt-this ll-like rational beings?” _Stall, stall, stall. Think faster, Arliene, think!_

“Khajiit thinks we already are. You have your sword, I have this arrow. If you wish to see which moves faster, Khajiit is ready to oblige you.”

That… wasn’t helpful in the slightest. He seemed like a talker, though. Perhaps I’d lose my money and some other things, but it might be possible to negotiate leaving me enough to work with, particularly my horse. “How about I put down my sword, you put down that bow and arrow, and we discuss what you want?”

“What Khajiit wants is very simple. Khajiit wants your money and your goods. Whether or not you die in the process, this one does not care.”

Wonderful. Just my luck to meet this joker off the road too, where we were out of sight of the Watch patrols. Crystal was growing restive, sensing the tension in the air that crackled between me and my would-be robber.

“All right ttth-then. I’m ppp…putting down my weapon now, see?” Suiting action to words, I set the drawn blade carefully on the ground and backed away a little from it, watching the cat-man’s aim all the while, wary of his movements as he came forward, bow now relaxed but his arrow still at the ready. He didn’t look like one of those who were addled by skooma, something that I knew happened rather frequently in Elsweyr; but one never did know. 

I kept my hand on Crystal’s flank, both as a reassurance, and as part of a wild idea that had just occurred to me…

“Mind she-shea… p-putting up your weapon, friend?” I was deliberately casual. “You’re scaring my horse, and she doesn’t take well to being scared.”

The Khajiit snorted. “Does the smooth-skin take this one for a fool? One did not leave his mother’s teat the day before yesterday!”

“I agree. It’s too bad, you really shouldn’t have left your mother,” I nodded amiably at his enraged face, even as I ducked behind Crystal and slapped her withers to get her to leap forward. She responded beautifully, bearing down on the bandit at high speed in her fear, forcing him to roll aside, or get trampled as she fled towards the road. 

_Twang!_ I ducked out of reflex, before realising he wasn’t shooting at _me_. The Khajiit bastard was aiming at my horse, damn him! If he lamed her, or managed to kill her… I ran, picking up a large pebble and threw it at him. 

Missed. Fuck!

The throw wasn’t completely useless — got him on the head, ha! The furbag yowled, letting his bow drop, blood already beginning to flow. He charged me, growling. I ran, dropping to the ground to avoid a wild slash to my back, rolling the last few feet to reach my sword, back on my feet just in time to up and block the angry slash of claws and long knife headed towards my face. The whistle and rush of air his claws made as they streaked past made me blink and backpedal in a hurry.

We traded blows, his long knife against my sword. Slash, thrust, parry, dodge— too close fuck! And then I blinked, finding myself disarmed. I jumped on him, and we wrestled over and on the ground, slipping on the wet grass, rolling over and over trying to pin the other down for a killing stroke. I was quick, but the Khajiit had more mass, was very quick himself, with more reach; and his lethally sharp claws meant he had a weapon even after I forced his knife out of his hand. Gods, if only— the backup dagger in my boot! 

Just like that, it was over; pinned under the bandit, his claws at my neck as I choked for air. Gods rot him, and myself most of all, for letting him catch me off-guard in the first place. Being slowed from the headache attack of a few days ago was no excuse. I’d been sloppy, and I was going to die for it. 

I looked him in the eyes, this young Khajiit male, who’d proved a wily and smart fighter. What a waste of potential he represented. “Finish it.” For the first time in our encounter, those large golden eyes grew uncertain. 

If I were going to die, I had rather it be quick, and not this drawn-out waiting lark with my heart thumping in my ears. Waiting around is for cows, sheep and rich people. “Go on! What’re you waiting for, an invite?” Still the hesitance, the lack of claws or knife slicing into my skin —

I wondered — surely not, and yet — perhaps… 

“You’ve — never actually — done ttt-this before — have you? Killed s-someone?” Khajiit and Argonian expressions are renowned for being difficult for humans and mer to interpret, but I knew my words had hit home. He was young, and our verbal spar from earlier had told me that this was very much still an overconfident youngling I was dealing with: Any other bandit on these roads would have shot me dead while I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, and then been gone long since, my corpse left for the crows. This was no time to lose focus, though, not with sharp claws pricking my skin. The growing lack of air was also a concern.

“Khajiit has killed before, men and women, soft-skins like you!” Nice try at bravado, but I _knew_ he was bluffing. 

“You’ve sstolen — maybe you’ve sack people, but I don’t tt-think you’ve killed — anyone, ever. Your hands and claws wouldn’t — aah! — be s-shaking so much if you had.” I winced, hearing my cracking voice rise sharply into a squeak as his hand spasmed. The claws nicked the side of my neck a little, enough to sting. A warm trickle started down the side of my neck. 

I tried for as persuasive a tone I could produce, dredging up what I’d learned from watching Clesyne cajole and persuade merchants, truculent clients and the like. “Your hands haven’t got blood on them yet. Don’t start now.”

The young Khajiit bandit was obviously conflicted, and I breathed very shallowly as I waited to see if I would live, or die on those sharp claws. Finally, I felt his claws retract. I tried not to let my relief show too obviously, though my harsh breathing was out of my control, as he moved off me, making it easier to draw in a full breath, and another.

I sat up, rubbing at my neck and wiping off my fingers on the grass, the blood already drying as I eyed the would-be highwayman. The Khajiit retreated to a distance of about twenty yards away, deliberately not looking in my direction. 

“Tt-thhank you,” I called out in his direction. I meant it. He didn’t have to let me go; he could’ve made the jump to murderer right then. I thought it best he not get any more ideas along those lines, and resolved to be polite. 

All I had in return was a glare, though.

“You’re still alive. Now get lost!” I could see how it was; his pride had been sorely pricked. Now that I wasn’t in immediate danger of dying, I actually felt sorry for the bugger. First things first though: I needed to see where Crystal had ended up. I devoutly hoped that she hadn’t been terrified enough to have run off far enough I couldn’t find her again.

Luckily for me, or perhaps not so much luck as it was good training, Crystal had stopped fairly close by down the road, and all my things were still safely on her back. A bit skittish at first, I spent a good half an hour calming her down before I deemed her calmed enough from her earlier experience, and she allowed me to lead her back to the clearing without protest. She did snort and grow uneasy as we entered the clearing again, particularly around the Khajiit, who was also watching us.

I led Crystal back to the tree she’d been tethered to previously, and began checking her feet over for any injuries or other problems while she drank thirstily from the spring. I found no signs of injury or loose stones in her hooves, for which I was very grateful. 

The Khajiit was still looking at me every so often, rather sullen. Well, it wouldn’t do for him to have second thoughts. He was a good fighter, obviously not bad with a sword, and very skilled in hand to hand techniques. I didn’t want him to hang around still angry with me — I’d had enough of bruises and scratches and cuts from our earlier fisticuffs. 

I went through my saddlebags and found what I was looking for: the fresh honeyed sweetrolls I’d bought as a treat for myself from the Wawnet Inn this morning. My new Khajiit acquaintance could probably do with something to sweeten his disposition, after all.

I walked right up to him, which surprised him; his claws flicked out in reflexive defence. I broke off an end of the roll I was holding, and put it in my mouth, chewed and swallowed; then held out the remainder to him. 

“Fresh honey sweetrolls, baked just t-this morning. I solemnly swear I haven’t drugged or poisoned them.” I tossed the roll gently in his direction, and he picked it out of the air without thinking. “There’s a few left here, if you want mm-more after you’re done. You’re welcome.” 

I went back over to where Crystal was, and sat down, deliberately turning my back to him while making sure he could see me — and that I hadn’t fallen over frothing or unconscious from poison. 

I heard him come up from behind me; somewhat unusual considering that Khajiit were capable of being silent enough to sneak up on a deer at 40 paces, and routinely did so to everybody they met. “This one would have robbed you, and tried to kill you. So why are you being so kind to this one?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

I turned about to face him and looked up, squinting against the sun as I answered him. “You’re young. Desperate enough to flip to robbing people on the highways. Stupid enough to t-try it without being hardened enough to kill.” I shrugged. “I remember being that young and desperate once.”

“But not stupid?” The Khajiit’s rasp had a hint of mocking laughter in the midst of his curiosity. 

“I never said that I wasn’t stupid back then,” I smiled back at him. “Stupid some other way, yes.” I patted the ground in front of me. “Come and sit down. You’ll give me a neck pain otherwise trying to t-talk to you.”

The Khajiit snorted, but did as I’d bade him. “This one thanks you for the sweetroll. It has been some time since this one had anything so good to eat now.” His face was wistful as he eyed the pile of rolls on the cloth next to me. 

I set the bundle between the both of us. “Take what you will of these, friend.” I watched as he devoured one roll, then another, but stopped at the last. Young, and hungry. Now that I had the leisure and presence of mind to observe him at close range, I could see that his face was thin, raw-boned; obviously he had not been eating all that regularly.

I decided to be blunt, figuring I might get a straight answer from the cat-man. “You’re young, strong and a good fighter. Why are you out here robbing people, when you could make a better coins in the Fighter’s Guild, or escorting caravans?” He blinked, not understanding, one ear twitching towards me. I repeated my question, slower this time, more careful with my pronunciation.

The Khajiit hissed. “This one came from Ne Quin-al — what you call Anequina in your tongue that is hard to speak — in the train of a caravan master of that city. One did not like that service, so one left him and went out looking for other work. However, this one found that Cyrodiil, for all it is the heart of the Septim Empire and boasts of being the home of all races, does not like Khajiit much, no.” He shook his head, the rings in his left ear tinkling faintly with the motion. 

“This one but took what he had needed from that caravan master; the caravan master was Khajiit, and with this one being Khajiit too, you would think he understood the needs of a clan-mate in these lands. That was my mistake,” his teeth bared in a grin that had less of laughter than it did of anger about it, “the caravan master accused one of taking what does not belong to him, so now the Imperial Watch tries to arrest me on sight if I try to go into a town. Khajiit wants to go home. He misses the warm sands of the desert and the sugar in his food, where beautiful Ta’agra lilts in the air instead of your barbarian language. He cannot do so while he has no money and his belly is empty, and he cannot earn gold while the Watch tries to arrest him everywhere he goes. So…” The Khajiit shrugged, rather philosophical about the whole situation. 

I nodded. “So you’re stuck here with no money to pay your fines and go home, then?”

“Khajiit has been living off rabbits, deer, fruits and wild berries; he also sneaked food from travellers’ camps, when he finds them. Those have been growing fewer and fewer however, and the snows grow closer. This one does not like the cold without a roof or tent over his head, that he does not.”

“If I were you, I’d go find an Ayleid ruin to explore — there’s a couple around this area, you know? They usually have things worth sale to collectors in them; and if you’re lucky, they won’t be occupied by other bandits already. Why not try your luck there? You might get full to be able to pay off your fines. Unless you’re telling me you’ve got a really high p-price on your head?”

“This one… may have been seen running away, a time or two,” the Khajiit admitted, rubbing an ear nervously. 

I sighed. Divines, had I ever been quite so young and rash as this cat was turning out to be? “Your clan mother must have despaired of you when you were still in Anequina,” I muttered. 

“My clan mother may have commented before that she was sure I was a kit of Merrunz’s get, yes,” he agreed mildly. 

“Take my word and go loot some dead Ayleids, not live travellers. You live longer that way, and still get as much action out of it.” I wrapped up the last of the sweet rolls in its cloth and handed it to him. “If it comes down to it, serving jail time in the winter months will get you fed and out of the weather, will it not?”

“Khajiit would still prefer not to have to go to jail at all,” he remarked with some asperity. “Khajiit does not like being shut away from the sun and winds. He had rather stay away from the Watch and towns. This one admits it is proving troublesome however.”

“Better make sure you can sneak past the Watch and get your stuff — not thief! — to a merchant quickly, so you can pay off your fines then. Though if your bounty is that high by now, going to jail might be less troublesome.”

“This one will take his chances as S’rendarr sends them,” the Khajiit muttered. He didn’t seem enamoured of my ideas, though he could hardly be blamed for it. Jail time for who knew how long, against clearing ruins that were probably infested with bandits, who wouldn’t take kindly to another bandit trying to get into their base of operations. Neither option was appealing, in all likelihood.

“Going home will be worth it, believe me.” I hadn’t been in his exact situation before, but I fancied I knew personally a little of what it was like to be unable to return home. I stood up and moved to check on the saddlebags, checking the saddle girth, cinching it tight to make sure it wouldn’t slip loose with me still in the saddle.

“You are leaving?” The Khajiit seemed surprised. Perhaps he thought I was going to camp there for the rest of the evening? I certainly wouldn’t; sure he seemed like a decent sort, once you got past the attempted robbery and possible murder: but I was not going to tempt his better nature any further by camping near where he could slip his hands into my bags. Besides, I’d wasted enough time here already.

“I have a sister waiting for me down south,” I replied. “Her temper with me will be high if I don’t come up when I’m supposed to.” That brought on a chuckle.

“Farewell. May you walk always on warm sands.” Despite my continued misgivings, I couldn’t help but return his smile. What a charming rogue.

  


* * *

  


I left the Khajiit bandit at that spring sometime around 4 hours after noon; as soon as I was out of sight, I rode Crystal hard to clear a good distance between us and the earlier campsite, crossing the first of two bridges across the White Rose River. By the time I stopped to let her rest again, already blowing hard, it was late evening and the first stars were out in the sky. 

I made camp for the night well off the road, within sight of the ancient doomstone named for the sign of the Tower. The distant circle of stones brought back recollections of lectures at the Arcane University, what felt like a lifetime ago now. 

I’d never really been one for lectures though, and I barely remembered anything from my mandatory classes dealing with the stones, mostly thanks to the lecturer who’d held that particular class. The Mage Scholar, one Plumbeus Ampullor, or “Old Leadenwater”, as we apprentices used to refer to him, delivered all his talks, no matter how fascinating the subject, in a deadly dull intonation that was dry as sawdust, and as effective at choking any interest in the subject at hand. No one ever asked him anything in the allotted question time after the end of a lecture, because no one was ever awake for it. Needless to say, the grades from his examinations were amongst the lowest every year.

In any case, replaying the sound of his voice, even only in memory, was still a sovereign remedy for sleeplessness; I fell asleep much quicker than usual that night.

The next morning, I woke up wishing for a warm bath, as I was starting to feel rather sore from the long hours of riding I’d been doing for the past two days. I checked my map and reckoned my location by the sun, and found I was now a fairly close ride from the village of Pell’s Gate, which was some distance after the Old Bridge, a few miles ahead from my present location. 

The village lay almost directly south in a straight line from the Imperial City, and was not far from the crossings where the Red Ring Road met the Green. I looked over my horse’s condition; looked again at the sky, which was very much threatening another heavy downpour, and decided that a night at an inn was in order, despite the cost.

In spite of my hopes and Crystal’s gallant attempt at more speed, the skies opened up with a cold deluge before we rode at a slow pace through the main entrance to Pell’s Gate. The village itself was not a large one, having only some two dozen wood-framed houses, with their households, and a small sized inn; its main income derived from resupplying the people and caravans that travelled between the Imperial City and the southern parts of Cyrodiil. 

I stabled Crystal myself, with hands that felt more like ice blocks than limbs — here at the _Sleeping Mare Inn_ , there was no dedicated ostler who knew his business, only a new and very green stable boy who didn’t look as though he could tell oats from barley grain. Still, he managed well enough once I instructed him on the proper way to care for and rub down a horse that had taken a soaking from bad weather — meaning plenty of rugs and blankets, a stall that was snug and warm, a good brushing and a firm rubdown with braided straw, and extra hay in the feeder. 

Once I was satisfied by my observations that the boy was doing as I’d told him, I then hurried back out into the bucketing rains. Arms over my head in a futile effort to keep the rain off, I fairly ran into the inn’s common room, tracking rivulets of water and muck onto the sturdy, if roughly made flagstone floor and trying not to slip. The innkeeper, Candice Corgine hurried over with offers of warmed towels to dry myself with, and outright dismay at the muck and water I was freely dripping all over her clean floor.

It rained through the night, and kept on raining heavily well into the morning, and throughout the whole day and again into the night, with strong winds that blew the rain nearly sideways. Being shut indoors thanks to the weather, I was feeling restless and bored, and getting rather claustrophobic by the second day of rain, since the inn was small and cramped with rather low wooden ceilings and walls. 

Apart from gossiping with Candice, there was nothing much to do in the inn. It wasn’t so bad talking with her; the Breton innkeeper had no family around and thus was often lonely, and she had a fondness for tales of adventure and travel. Exchanging news with the regular patrons and transients was also a source of amusement. Still, too much of the same thing makes it boring, and those pastimes grew stale after the first morning. Otherwise I could spend my time sleeping, and eating the prepared meals, which were filling but rather bland, nothing to write home about. Candice mourned the fact that the Imperial cook just couldn’t understand how to properly cook Breton-style dishes, a situation with which I commiserated. 

There was little in the way of intellectual stimulation possible. What few books were on hand were useless to me. The inn had a thriving sideline in sales of potions, basic alchemical reagents and equipment, along with miscellaneous magickal bric-a-brac, but I wasn’t in the mood for attempting any advanced alchemical experimentation either — the results of my experiments would probably result in Candice throwing me out onto the road into the rain. Her resources and usually good temper was already rather strained by the unusuallly large influx of travellers seeking shelter, and anything that disrupted the peace of her common room wouldn’t win me any favours.

I prayed to Kynareth and asked her to speed the rains on their way elsewhere. Bravil was still two days’ ride away, and that estimate might rise further if the extreme rain and winds had managed to wash out a section of the road or otherwise make it impassable. The main roads were well maintained and patrolled by the Legion, but all the same they had been known to give way in part in some lower-lying areas, and there was always the possibility of fallen trees blocking the road that I would have to ride around.

I stared out the window at the grey skies and watched water sheet down the cloudy glass, and wondered how Clesyne was faring. Was she safely indoors? Or perhaps it was raining too, but not quite as heavily in Bravil. Maybe the weather there was sunny and not a drop of rain to speak of. If that were so, lucky her.

Outside, the interminable rain went on and on.


	5. Chapter 5

In the end, the rain had gone on, and on, and on for a whole two days and nights, counting the day I’d reached Pell’s Gate, before it finally slackened to a reluctant stop, giving over to weak sunshine amidst scudding, ragged clouds. This change marked my third morning in the _Sleeping Mare Inn_ , and I would be glad to see it recede behind me. Replenishing my supplies of dried biscuit and hardtack from the inn’s stores, I packed them into my saddlebags and went out to Crystal, whom I had not seen for very long in the past few days except for a quick turn around the local pasture in between rain showers. She neighed when she saw me, and was mollified with an offering of two sugar cubes and an apple. I was probably spoiling her terribly, but I couldn’t bring myself to worry about it. 

Evidently Crystal was as eager as I was to get back on the road, because she was full of restless energy this day, shifting, almost prancing about under me in her impatience. I tugged a little to get her to mind me and settle down, which she did eventually, though her ears remained pricked at the slightest sound. 

The road was winding, wet and slippery, very nearly washed out by mud in places, and I put Crystal to a slow trot, since the very last thing I wanted was for her to lose her footing on a bad patch of road and break a leg. We still made fairly good time, however, despite having to ride around fallen trees and branches at several spots. 

I estimated we were now perhaps three-quarters of the way to Bravil by the end of the day, having passed by the turnoff headed to the _Inn of Ill Omen_ (the name always made me wonder); and I should make it to Bravil by sundown on the morrow. Despite the pervasive dampness of the ground, which made my bedroll rather cold that night, my spirits were high. I’d be meeting with Clesyne, and with all possibility, she’d have found Frothi by now; perhaps she even had the bears with her, and merely awaited my coming before we got the animals back to the Imperial City together.

It was evening when I reached Bravil. I would’ve arrived sooner than that, except that the condition of the last stretch of the Green Road, where it split into a branch road leading to Bravil was an absolute mess, completely washed out by the rains, which obviously had been just as heavy if not worse than at Pell’s Gate. Late though it was, I paid for Crystal’s stabling at the Bay Roan Stables, just outside of the city, and trudged up towards the city walls. 

I really didn’t like Bravil. Still don’t, and probably never will. It might be one of the oldest settlements in Cyrodiil, dating all the way back to the First Era and Alessia’s day, but it sure didn’t look like it. The town was, to put it lightly, _uninviting_ , and that’s not considering the “decorations” a visitor could spot, or more likely smell, coming from a long way off. The wind was blowing briskly in my direction as I approached the outer gates of the city, and I heartily wished that it hadn’t been.

Above the outer gates, a faded signboard hung bidding visitors **WELCOME TO BRAVIL**. The cheeriness of the message sharply contrasted with the swaying, rotting corpses hanging from the walls, presumably victims of the last anti-crime sweep ordered by the Count when central Imperial authority’s complaints about the lawlessness of his county capital grew too loud to ignore. Any traveller entering the city would have to first walk past and under that silent object lesson. I took shallow breaths, tried not to shudder, and sped up as much as I could without actually running, as I crossed the wooden bridge which joined the Nibenay Valley at this point to the isles that the town sat on.

It was with relief that I entered the city proper, and from there took a brisk jog to _Silverhome-on-the-Water_ , which was close to the main gate. This inn was generally considered the better kept of the two in town, with a more savoury clientele — though seeing as this was _Bravil_ , ‘better-kept’ was mostly relative. One couldn’t really complain though: the _Silverhome_ ’s interior was clean, if a little shabby; the air was sweeter compared to outside, and the service was not much worse than other inns elsewhere. 

I kept one hand discreetly on my sword hilt: Bravil was Cyrodiil’s armpit, or as Gilgondorin, the Altmer who ran the inn I was headed to had more than once colourfully put it, “Tamriel’s cloaca”. It was the poorest town in Cyrodiil, and ruffians and gangs walked the streets openly, even in the daylight. 

I reached the inn soon enough, and Gilgondorin greeted me with his usual polite, if terse greeting. It’s old news about town that Gilgondorin was reluctant to stay in Bravil and maintain the inn, and only did so out of his perceived duty to the family business. That’s not to say that he was a poor innkeep, far from it; but he’d made clear more than once his heart wasn’t in his work. I never saw him happy for long. Sometimes I wished I had the courage to tell him to sell off his business and go be an artist, as gossip had it was his heart’s ambition. His frustration was going to ruin him eventually, if not now, then in some years. Still, it wasn’t my business what Gilgondorin chose to do with his life. I had no standing to advise him anyway, not with how _my_ life’d turned out so far.

I paid the 20 coppers for a room, and added another 5 to my bill for a hot bowl of boiled rice noodles in beef soup. As I ate, I quizzed Gilgondorin on whether Clesyne had been here. 

“Your sister was here, about three, no, four days ago; she stayed the night and then left, didn’t come back. No, she didn’t leave any messages.” That was disappointing, but I then asked if anyone answering to Frothi’s description, with or without any exotic animals in his train, had been in town recently. 

“A Nord, named Frothi, you said?” Gilgondorin frowned, thinking. “I may have heard someone mention his name in passing. He left a week ago, not very long before your sister arrived, if my memory serves me — yes, he had caged _bears_ with him,” he shuddered at that point, “Such savage beasts! He was keeping company with quite a number of the local riff-raff during his stay,” a sneer flitted at the corner of his thin lips, as he proceeded to list off several notorious rogues about town, “I would suggest you talk with Bogrum gro-Galash, at the _Lonely Suitor_ — ” he made a face here at the name of his competitor, ” — since your man stayed there. He, or one of his regulars might know where Frothi was headed to.”

“Anything new around Bravil these few mm-months, otherwise?” I asked the mer. Having an ear to the ground was always a good idea — who was new in town, who not to anger, who had a new scheme, which gang was on the outs with another gang — that was always worth knowing. 

Gilgondorin frowned. “No, nothing much is new. Though — I hear that Ursanne Loche’s husband, Aleron, went missing, a few days ago. I don’t know what could’ve happened to him, but his wife’s beside herself with grief, going to the chapel every day and crying to Mara for his safety. Poor woman’s absolutely distracted.” The mer shook his head. “Just between you and me — I hear the man’s run up a lot of debts gambling. He doesn’t seem the type, but perhaps he took off to avoid the debt collectors coming after him.”

That had to content me for the night — I ate, spent the remnants of the evening thinking of what I had to do the next day, and wondering just where Clesyne had gone. Did she know that our man had flown the coop? She must have found out at some point that Frothi wasn’t here any longer. Presumably she’d also found out where he might be headed to next, so why hadn’t she left a message or something for me, telling me her next destination, or where to meet her? I couldn’t help but worry for her now. The circles this Frothi ran in were hardly lawful or civilised ones, it seemed, a darker grey than our own associations with Sal and his like. 

The sounds of roisterers engaging in very loud, very painfully off-key revelry filtered through the plastered and stuccoed timber walls as I tossed on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position in the muggy heat, and wishing for something to plug my ears with. Dozing off, I twitched awake at the slightest sounds, until I finally managed to get some sleep, however fitful it might be. 

An insistent knocking at my door woke me from a strange dream of dark tunnels and shrieks. The inn’s maidservant had brought up water for washing, and was being rather impatient about it, it seemed. I was rather tempted to ignore that rattling, but well, the noise was hardly conducive to burrowing under the covers and going back to sleep. 

I sat up, rather bleary and scrubbed at my face and eyelids hard. “Coming!” I shouted and rolled out of bed, wrapping the blanket around me and opening the door. The surly woman pushed past, set the bucket down with a thump and slosh. Still glaring, she retrieved the (unused) chamberpot, then strode out. Well. What a cheerful start to the morning.

  


* * *

  


I greeted Gilgondorin, who responded to my morning greeting with a unimpressed look; ate a breakfast of bacon and boiled beans on bread whilst staring around at the genteelly shabby decor, then started walking towards the southern parts of town. My destination was on the lesser second isle, joined to the main isle by a bridge. It was a fairly long walk, particularly since the Main Street didn’t go through the town, but curved around it like a snake east to west and down to the south. 

Now, no city or town in all of Cyrodiil approaches the Imperial City for grandeur or beauty: while its buildings and bridges could be somewhat monotone with its materials of white marble and heavy gray stone, the stonework was carved with gorgeous motifs in many of the older sections, harking back to the First Era and the Reman Empire; its roads and thoroughfares were clean, and the masses of people in silks and velvets and gaily-dyed motley and homespun thronging its streets made it bright and colourful like a jewel in the sun. 

Bravil however took ugliness in architectural form to new levels. This town had no huge populace, and its buildings were worn wood and dull stone. It was hardly attractive even in the dark, to say nothing of its appearance by day. Not even the kindly cloak of night could hide the fact that the town was best described as a squalid dump. The city walls were solid stone, but the houses enclosed were not: many had stone foundations, but the majority were constructed only partly of stone, with the rest of the building assembled from rough wood and timbers crusted with moss, lichen and various fungi. More than a few buildings were totally slapdash in construction, cramped together and stacked crazily atop one another like a child’s wooden blocks, and with as much care; all in the name of getting away from the pervasive damp of the soil. A great many were in poor condition, death traps for the inhabitants should a fire break out. The streets were filled with rubbish that gave off a stomach turning stink. 

The situation was hardly helped by the town’s proximity to the Larsius River, which served as a means of transport, the town sewers, water source and the communal dumping ground for everything ranging from food remnants to the dead bodies of murder victims. Slow and meandering, the river flowed through the town center, and then curved around it before emptying into the Niben Bay. The stench of rot, damp, waste, and the peculiarly flammable gas I notice hangs around marshlands created a noxious miasma that just couldn’t be good for the health. 

Passing by the Great Chapel of Mara, which stood apart from the other buildings like a rock in a whirlpool, I had a sudden fancy to walk in — I’d gone by its doors more than once, but never actually entered to pay my respects at the goddess’ altar there. The day was growing rather warm, anyway, and the idea of stopping for a while in the shade was appealing. 

With the goal of surreptitiously cooling off, I entered the Chapel’s Great Hall. Like so many other temples to the Divines I’d seen in Cyrodiil, the Great Chapel of Mara was built in a shape similar to a horseshoe. From the outside, the chapel and its steeple soared upwards to the heavens; only the Count’s castle challenging it for domination of the Bravilian skyline. The building itself was an imposingly solid, if rather blockish affair of smooth grey granite and stone. Inside, tall fluted columns held up the high vaulted ceilings. Up above towards the roof, large, arched stained glass windows allowed the brilliant sunlight to spill through, the mosaics of coloured glass and the rose windows shedding the light onto the lower half of the chapel in a blaze of blues, reds and greens. The air was filled with the scents of sacred lotus and lavender from the vases filled with bouquets and the incense burners stationed in discreet corners. More huge glass mosaic windows closer to ground level depicted the Eight and One, a smaller altar to each under their respective windows. As was fitting for Her Chapel, Mara’s window was the largest and centermost, directly behind the great altar to the Nine that was the focus of the place. 

An elderly Breton woman was knelt in front of the altar, deep in prayer. As I stepped towards the altar to make my own salutations I caught sight of the silent tears falling to the floor. I wondered who the woman was, though I did have a very good idea who she might be. It was the middle of the day, hardly the usual time for worshippers to be at Chapel. 

I bowed once in the direction of the Goddess’ altar, then washed my hands and lips with the water in the ceremonial font, sprinkling the water remaining on my hands over my head before kneeling myself, carefully remaining at a distance from the other woman, and murmured a prayer to Mara, our Lady and Merciful Mother of All to watch over my sister, since I was beginning to worry over the prolonged silence on her part, and added a word or two for Phintias and Rohssan as well as Jeelius. 

I got up, dusting my trousers off and rubbing a little feeling back into my knees; the stone floors were hard, despite the thick woven rugs set out for worshippers. The other woman too was also rising from the floor, wiping hard at her eyes and pushing stray silver hairs away from her face and back into the severe bun she wore. Our gazes met for an instant before we looked away again; both abashed at the emotion on display. 

“Is something tt-the matter?” I asked her.

She was taken aback for an instant, but then her expression firmed up. “Oh, no. It’s nothing, really, but — have you seen my husband? Aleron Loche, he’s a Breton, around my age…” 

I shook my head. “I only just came in t-ttown last night. I’m sorry.” 

“I beg your pardon?” The woman leaned in closer as though that would help her understand me better. I repeated my answer, and watched the hope in the woman’s eyes dim behind her tears as she blinked hard. “There anything I can do to help you?” I found myself saying. I immediately regretted the words, but they were out now; why on earth did I even offer —

The old woman’s smile was brave, and very false. “No, no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you with this.” Her hands wrung her skirts, crumpling them even further. “I trust in Mara’s grace; She will bring my Aleron home.” 

“I — I’ll be going. I stay at the Silverhome; see for me there if you… change your mind,” was my feeble response. The woman, who I now knew for certain to be Ursanne Loche, nodded, faintly, as she sat on a bench and produced a book, probably some tract on the goddess or other. I hurried out of the chapel, feeling distinctly awkward. 

_Don’t get involved. There’s no time for this. You’re not a do-gooder or stupid, where’s the money in that, Arliene?_

I couldn’t afford to help her, despite what I’d said. Really, I couldn’t. If a tip on Frothi came in at any point I’d have to drop any investigation here into Aleron Loche’s whereabouts. If Clesyne sent word to meet somewhere, I’d definitely have to hurry and leave the town. It wasn’t my business anyway. Why should I help her? Gilgondorin’s information put the Loches as being neck-deep in debt; finding the missing man was hardly likely to be a profitable transaction. But… 

I growled at myself. Forget the woman, forget how miserable she looked, forget how brave her false smile was, even as she tried not to break down any further in a stranger’s presence…

Dammit.

  


* * *

  


The _Lonely Suitor Lodge_ had a romantic name, a more prosaic public face, and a seedy underbelly. The rougher sort who frequented the place came not just for the food, drink and cheap rooms — numerous “lonely suitors” who lodged at that inn often were there precisely so they _didn’t_ stay lonely for the night, if you take my meaning. 

It was late afternoon, and I stepped into the warm interior of the inn, its doors opened wide presumably in deference to the late afternoon heat. Though it was barely three-quarters of the way to nightfall, the inn’s grimy, somewhat decrepit interior was already partly filled with men drinking themselves into boisterous racket or quiet stupors as their natures would have them be. I resisted the urge to pinch my nose shut and breathed in shallowly, as the sour smell of alcohol-sodden sweat that permeated the air and clashed with the scents of food and other unnamed things hit in a gut turning fashion. I avoided one man’s flailings as he summoned the maid for another cup, turned to avoid an attempted pinch of my bottom, and leaned across the counter to meet with Bogrum gro-Galash, the innkeeper. 

“Hail, innkeep. A m-mug of grog, if you will.” I put down my coin, and thumped my backside on one of the stools in front of the bar. The Orc brought my drink over, and I sipped a small mouthful of the fruity, somewhat sourish brew, trying not to wince at the taste. “Thank you.” He grunted in reply, and resumed his earlier task of clearing emptied mugs off the counter.

“How’s business here been?” I thought starting off with small talk before easing into the reasons for my coming here would be easier rather than pumping him directly for information would be. Bogrum however stared hard at me with some distaste, before replying. 

“I know you’re not here just to drink, Breton. You’ve a look about you… Wait, didn’t I see you around last week? What is it you’re after now? Make it quick, I’m not very fond of your type.”

Well I’d obviously been made, thanks to Clesyne. At least I now knew for certain she’d been here before me. No point beating around the bush now, which was a relief of sorts. “I have a couple of questions for you, yeah.” I spoke rather slowly, wanting to make myself clear straight off. “First thing: Has a Nord, Frothi seen here? He might’ve had c-b-bears with him.”

The Orc’s frown deepened. “A Nord with bears? Yes, he was here a few days, and then he left with half his bill unpaid, the scoundrel.” Something unfriendly sparked in the man’s eye as he asked, casually, “He a friend of yours?”

“Hardly. I was t-tasked to find him. Someone else he owes things to decided he’s taking too long with payment.”

The Orc’s laugh was deep and unamused. “You want to know where he might’ve ended up, eh? Go talk with Kurdan the moneylender. He’ll know, if anyone does in this town. He and that bastard were thick as thieves together.”

“Kurdan?” I asked. The name wasn’t familiar.

“Kurdan gro-Dragol. He’s just out at the moment, had something to do and won’t be back till tonight or tomorrow morning. So either you sit down and order something else, or come back later. I’ve got a business to run, no place for people who’ll just sit here for hours with the one cheap drink, all right?”

I nodded and stood up to leave. “Thanks, friend.” The Orc innkeeper merely harrumphed at that. I got out the door, and was reminded that my stock of good steel tipped arrows was running a tad low when I saw the archery store opposite. Daenlin, the owner, did make good arrows, better than anyone else I’d ever seen. A quick stop in and I’d said hello, bought a bundle of arrows and left, in less than a quarter of a candlemark. 

I hurried along back to the _Silverhome_ , again passing by the Chapel. My eyes strayed to the outside of the Chapel, where a slight figure was just exiting the doorway, but I kept walking. It really wasn’t any of my business. I should know better than to get involved. It wasn’t as though the last time ended that well, now. I realised then that I’d slowed down, and increased my pace again.

“You! Wait! Please!” I turned around. Madam Loche was a little ways behind me, huffing a bit; obviously she’d run after me from the Chapel steps to catch up. “Please,” I moved closer as the elderly woman bent over a little to catch her breath. Her next words came in a rush.

“You offered to help, earlier in the Chapel.” Her face was set, but in her eyes was a pleading look. “I’d like to take you up on your offer; I really need your help: My husband, Aleron is missing, and has been for more than three days now. I’m sorry to impose on you like this, but I’m in need of assistance, and I don’t know what to do. I prayed to Mara, and I asked Her for help and you came and…” I took her hands gently in mine, as she struggled not to break down weeping again. 

“All right, all right. I’ll yelp” — a quick shake of my head, damn my unwieldy tongue — “ _help_ you. Can we go somewhere else to t-talk? This isn’t the right place for this.” 

Madam Loche nodded, much calmer now. “Come with me. We can go back to my house and I’ll tell you what I know.” 

I followed her back to her home, which was close to the Chapel. The house was part of a simple timber and rough stone building, a cramped one room affair typical of the common dwellings here. Looking around surreptitiously, I noticed it was all quite neat and tidy, even if the owners’ poverty was evident from the worn chest of drawers and ramshackle shelving along one wall, and the thinning bedspread over the large double bed in one corner. 

My examination of the house was curtailed as the mistress of the house motioned me to a spare chair, and offered me a clay cup filled with water. I thanked her, took a large sip, which was much preferable to the fruity sludge that passed for cheap alcohol at the _Lonely Suitor_ , and prepared to hear her tale of woe. 

“It all began when Aleron became foolish, and started gambling.” She sighed, the lines in her face deepening with her frown as she continued, her brusque words quick and bitten off. “He’d visit the arena every week and spend our hard earned money on bets. I told him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He was certain he could win us a fortune and move us somewhere else, somewhere nicer like the Imperial City.” Madam Loche gulped down a large swallow of the liquid in her own cup before setting it down. Whatever was in it was definitely not water, from the smell; some form of tea, perhaps? I blinked and redevoted my attention to her story, which was sadly a familiar one and just as I’d expected. Divines, it’s a common enough sob story amongst people not born to castles and money, even if I hadn’t had personal experience with the like. 

“It didn’t take long for Aleron to begin losing,” here her voice seemed to take on a marked resentment, as she clasped her hands together, the knuckles white, “The silly man resorted to borrowing money from an usurer to cover his losses and place new bets. As you can imagine, it didn’t pay off. He ended up owing around 500 gold — as far as I could get Aleron to tell me of his debts. We could never have that kind of money to pay back the usurer.” 

I nodded and made sympathetic noises. “So what happened to Aleron? You speak he was missing?” 

Madam Loche nodded. “Three days ago now, the usurer, Kurdan gro-Dragol, sent for my husband to meet him at the _Lonely Suitor Lodge_. Aleron was worried, but he’d hoped to be given more time. He hasn’t returned since.” She breathed in sharply, even as the anxiety which had haunted her expression returned in full. “I fear for his life. Kurdan isn’t known for his patience. Please,” her voice had lost the earlier resentment and her plea was heart-felt, “I’m not wealthy, but I’d give _anything_ to see Aleron again.”

_Kurdan gro-Dragol_. What were the odds that the man I needed to see just so happened to be the same person who Madam Loche directed me to in looking for her lost husband? 

“Kurdan gro-Dragol? The Orc m-moneylender at t-the _Lonely Suitor Lodge_? I… have business to see him on, tomorrow morning. Nothing to do with money, don’t worry.” I tried to smile but it fell flat. Madam Loche nodded, though her expression had taken on a warier cast. “I’ll help you, ask him if he knows anything about where your husband might’ve gone.”

“You — you will?” I nodded. “Oh thank you! Please be careful,” Madam Loche implored. “I don’t wish any harm to befall you either.”

“I will, don’t worry.” Honestly, I was having an increasingly bad feeling about this. “The meeting place is public; he can’t do _too_ much harm to me there.”

The bad feeling only deepened with Madam Loche’s parting words: “Farewell, and be careful. Kurdan is not to be trusted.”

Dinner at the _Silverhome_ for me was a desultory affair, despite the good food and drink Gilgondorin supplied. The humid heat that had succeeded the rains was stifling my appetite, though if I were honest with myself it was more the thought of what might happen on the morrow, when I would meet Kurdan gro-Dragol. There was no one I could rely on in Bravil should anything happen to me, and the Orc didn’t sound like a man whose affairs it’d be healthy to inquire into too closely — and yet I would be doing just that twice over. Bloody wonderful. 

I asked Gilgondorin if he would be so kind as to send a message to my sister, telling her of my whereabouts should I not return within 2 days. The innkeeper agreed, with the minimal fee of another two coppers. That done, I ascended the stairs and turned in for the night. No telling what time Kurdan would return to the _Lonely Suitor_ ; best be there as soon as possible to meet him.

After dinner, I went up to my room and proceeded to run maintenance on my gear, checking if my weapons and armour were still in good condition. I reckoned it would be best if I went to that meeting as fully armed as possible; “disappearing” like Aleron had was to be avoided. I buffed off the dirt and grime from my cuirass and reoiled the leather, re-checked and tested the sharpness of the small hunting knife I kept in my boot, the longer utility knife attached to my belt at the waist where it would be hidden by my cuirass, my hip dagger, and then the condition of my sword and bow, though I didn’t plan on carrying the bow with me to meet Kurdan. The sword and the daggers needed some time with my whetstone to be fully ready, and I set about my work, sharpening the edges. The repetitive motion of the blades against the stone was soothing, a meditative exercise in its own right, and I went to bed in a calmer frame of mind than had happened for some time.

  


* * *

  


Morning came and I was again roused by the thumping of the maid on my door with the wash water. I washed, dressed and put on my armor, then quickly strapped on the rest of my weaponry; lastly I buckled on my sword. I hoped that by going armed, and with at least one visible weapon to hand, it would signal I was obviously ready for trouble; which might get Kurdan to think twice about making any sudden violent moves. Breakfast was light: apple slices, tea, smoked meat and buttered bread, which I forced myself to eat, slowly chewing and swallowing, though each mouthful felt like a lump of stone in my stomach.

Saying goodbye to Gilgondorin, I walked out the door and strode off on the road I had taken yesterday through the town. The stench of the streets was just as bad this early; worse, perhaps, since the smell of vomit and piss along with other fluids and refuse was still fresh, carried in the mirk coming off the river. Passing by the Great Chapel of Mara yet again, I sent up a silent prayer to the goddess for good luck. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was going to need it.

Walking into the Lonely Suitor’s taproom in the morning was not much better on my sense of smell than walking in during the previous afternoon had been, save that the lingering smell of vomit was less prominent. I nodded to Bogrum, who merely stared back, even as I ordered a bottle of ale and two tankards. As the innkeeper plunked the requested items in front of me, I asked discreetly if Kurdan had returned. 

“Over there, at that table by the window. Keep any rough business out of my inn, get it?” The Orc’s scowl was impressive. Bawdhouse or no, he was proud of his establishment and wouldn’t take kindly to anyone breaking things in it. 

“I understand. Tthhank you, master Bogrum,” I said, picking up the bottle and the tankards in my left hand, and went over to where he’d indicated. Here I got my first look at this man who haunted the Loche family’s nightmares.

Kurdan gro-Dragol was currently sitting down, tearing into a plate of meat; but he looked to be tall, even for an Orcish male; I judged he was almost 6 foot, and very husky; the bulk of his muscles were clear under his clothing. He was clad in boiled leather armour, and his scant head of hair was done up in a series of warrior braids that were a greasy black against his green skin. I silenced the instinctive gibber that arose when considering whether I could take him on and win, then rearranged my features into a neutral slate before crossing over, plonking the ale and tankards in front of him on the table.

Kurdan looked up at me, a deep flash of irritation crossing his face. “Yeah? What do you want? This better be good!” Clearly he wasn’t happy about being disturbed at his meal. 

The Orc squinted and leaned forwards, staring at me, before he went, with a disappointed air, “Oh. It’s yer again. Frothi not there huh?” I blinked. I hadn’t even gotten to mention what I was after — How did he —? 

“I’m sorry, but we haven’t let — sorry, _met_. But yes, I’m looking for Frothi, if you’re referring to Frothi Iron-Fists, from Winterhold. He might’ve had a couple of bears with —”

“Whachyer talking about? Don’t waste yer breath denying it now. I met yer, little Breton, even if your pretty head what’s top full o’ fluff and nothin’ don’t remember it nohow.” Kurdan’s voice was rising from a growl into a half-shout. “Last week Tirdas. You asked nice, and I told yer last I knew he was going to Anvil, bound back to Skyrim and Winterhold! If’n yer can’t find him, ‘s no fuckin’ problem o’ mine so’s I told yer, and I don’t give two shits on Dibella’s tits if you done killed horses or something speedin’ back here to tell me so!” 

“There’s been a m-misunders-s—” I was feeling a tad flustered at the Orc’s reaction. “Look, you got it wrong, all right? I’m n-not the woman you talked to.” 

The Orc’s reaction was a rude snort. “Ey, pull the other leg, pretty!” He leered and stared at me from top down, making my skin prickle with distaste. I had a sudden longing for a very hot bath. “If you’re not the woman, then I dunno, yer her ghost or something?”

“I believe you saw my twin.” I left off saying more than that. 

The Orc jeered. “Twins? Like peas in a pod! Well yer both are a sight.” I ignored the vulgar gestures he was making. What the _hell_ had Clesyne done meeting him? Clearly she hadn’t set him on fire, and at this point I was really wishing she had. 

I would’ve left by then, but there was another thing I had left to do: ask the whereabouts of Aleron Loche. “Where’s Aleron Loche and what did you do to him?” Kurdan’s face immediately turned uglier than it already was in his anger. 

“Whachyer saying huh? If I knew who this Aleron fellow was, and I don’t, what’s it to yer? None of yer damn business!”

“Ursanne Loche asked me if I’d come ask, seeing _you_ called him to meet you here, and he’s not been eye since! Easy question: Do you or do you not know where he’s gone?”

The Orc’s scowl deepened until he looked almost bestial. “I’m not liking your tone, pretty. Mebbe I do know him. Mebbe I don’t. I’d tell you if I liked you… and I don’t care for your in-sine-yernations.”

Time to tread carefully. “Innkeeper! Another round of ale please!” I was hoping that more alcohol might mollify this brute; I didn’t like the looks he’d been giving me at all: cold, angry, cunning edged with something I really didn’t want to think about. 

The requested ale arrived, even as Kurdan humphed. “Don’t go thinkin’ this makes me like yer any more than before,” he muttered, but he did seem to relax as he drank most of the bottle. I ordered a third bottle, and watched him down that too. I was very careful to give the impression of matching him drink for drink whilst only wetting my lips; getting the slightest bit tipsy around this man would be a big mistake, I felt. 

“I’m sorry if I gave you the impression earlier you knew anything of Aleron Loche’s disappearance,” I began again, carefully. “However, his wife was under the impression you and he had dealings…”

The Orc grumbled. “Malacath’s hammer, woman! Will yer stop bleating about that Maileron wosshissname already! I told yer I wouldn’t know where he’s gone, since I don’t know him to look at, you get me?” 

“Still… Madam Loche said you met her husband here.” I remained firm, whilst moving my hands out of reach, as subtly as I could — the Orc was beginning to get handsy. 

“Pah! All right. And if I _did_ meet with that Lock, or whatever his name is, here, which I’m not sayin’ I _did_ , mind! — how in Malacath’s name should I remember where he went to after, eh?” There was a distinct slur to his words.

“Surely you remember something?” I used my best innocent wheedling tone. Gods help me, I even batted my eyelashes — subtly! — at the bruiser. 

The Orc grumbled to himself inaudibly, before chuckling. “Oh all right. I still ssshhay I don’t ezhackly _remember_ where yer man’s gone. But since yer so interested, I know somethin’ that could jar my memory. To that, I got a prop-ersishun for yer.” I leaned forward, displaying blatant interest. I wondered if I was overdoing it, but reckoned that as tipsy as he seemed, and as unsubtle as Orcs were reputed to be, he might not care that I was hamming it up a bit. 

“And what might your proposition be?” I spoke slowly, as much to get my words out clearly as to make sure my tipsy adversary heard and understood me.

“I just learned that a family heirloom, the Axe of Dragol, which one of my _stupid_ relatives lost, is located on Fort Grief Island, in Niben Bay. My inf-f-f—informant tellssh me ‘ss hidden in the main keep at the center. Dunno what’s guardin’ it, but I’m sss-shure you can handle it. If you go there and bring it back to me, I’ll tell you exactly where Aleron is.” 

I restrained my expression, but only just. That — didn’t quite sound like he was really tipsy to me. Perhaps I’d let my ingrained Breton biases against anyone with Orc heritage and Kurdan’s brutish exterior get the better of my sense, and underestimated this particular Orc. I paid even keener attention to his facial expressions, watching, waiting for the tiniest slip. There! That mean glint in his eye… Shamming drunk, was he now? I resolved to take nothing he said next as the full truth.

“And if I dess-der- _choose_ not to find your axe?” I said, slowly, though I knew what his answer would be, invariably.

“Then Aleron may not be coming home from his… ahhh, journey, for a very long time. Like permanently.” The Orc let out a deep, grating laugh. “Now are yer gonna find my axe or no? Time’s wastin’. He’s safe… for now. Might not stay that way, who knows what’s out there?” 

All this smelled of a trap to me, though I didn’t fathom what his purpose was in trying to draw me in. All the common sense I had was screaming at me to _walk away_ and not get involved further. Not getting involved was the sane, safe decision. I had business to take care of. I could go back and tell Ursanne Loche her fears for her husband were confirmed, at least, and that we knew where he was likely being held. That was all I’d been asked to do. Madam Loche hadn’t outright asked me to rescue her husband, only to locate him, which I had.

Somewhere out there, there was a hapless man, in Divines knew what condition, praying for a rescue that was unlikely to arrive at all: The Loches were deep in debt, Ursanne likely didn’t have any money to hire someone from the Fighter’s Guild to go after her husband. Aleron Loche was up shit creek with no paddle — unless I did something. Could I live with that knowledge? 

Should I — _could_ I ignore this? Deliver the news to Ursanne Loche and then go, as though nothing else had happened? I struggled with myself. _Where’s the money in this?_ my practical side screamed. _This isn’t your fight, don’t jump in like a stupid_ espesie s’impétue _!_

But… I remember walking away once, when I was younger. There were only foggy details of the memory now — damned head injuries — but the remorse that came from it was very clear. 

I took a deep breath, and then another, decision made. No. Damn my soft heart, damn my noisy conscience, or just my plain idiocy; but I couldn’t walk away from this, no matter how stupid and mad the act would be, intervening in the situation. Julianos knows, I’ve never had much in the way of common sense anyhow. 

Oh, if my sister only knew now what I was walking into, eyes wide open… I’d never hear the end of it. 

“I’ll go it — the island. What’s your axe look like?” Time to take the minotaur by the horns and hope to survive the ride. 

“Good. It’s a battleaxe with the word “Dragol” carved into the haft. Huge. You can’t miss it. I ain’t gonna draw you a picture.” The Orc was still leering at me. I was frankly rather unnerved by it, and devoutly hoped he didn’t realise what effect he was having. 

“I’m going to f-f- _need_ to get some things first. How do I get to the island?” If I was going to spring the trap, I wanted every bit of equipment I had with me. My instincts were telling me I’d need everything I had to counter whatever Kurdan had waiting, because he had to be lying about the straightforwardness of this job, if nothing else. 

“Lucky for you, I’m in a giving mood — I’m not making you swim!” The Orc laughed at his own joke before turning serious again. “Whenever you’re ready — and it better be _soon_ , there’ll be a boat to take yer over to it. Go down to the water, and you’ll find a boat waitin’ for you at the dock next to the magic shop.” The Orc looked highly satisfied at that, which did no favours for my confidence. “Now you got something to find, so get outta my sight.”

I paid, quickly, and left as fast as I could without outright running, all the while feeling as though I were being watched. I restrained myself from looking around or outwardly indicating I was nervous on the way back to my inn; show no weakness and all that. 

I had a man to save.


	6. Chapter 6

I rushed back into my room at the _Silverhome_ , picked up my bow and light shield, then paused. I didn’t know what conditions awaited me on the island, and the man I was attempting to rescue, wherever he might be in the place was unlikely to be in good shape, if I’d read Kurdan’s character aright. I frowned, and decided to add more healing potions and some dry rations to my belt pouches. 

I fished out two boxes from my pack, one small, one larger and wider. Opening the larger box first, I traced my finger across the multiple vials of potions, nestled in velvet cushioning. These were my own homebrews, including some meant specifically for ‘difficult’ situations — ordinarily I wouldn’t use them because the ingredients were either costly or hard to obtain. I couldn’t ignore the feelings of impending doom I was having, however; and after hesitating I started pulling various potions from the box. Two vials of the brew I called “run like hell” that healed, restored energy and made the drinker invisible for a short time; another potion that dispelled curses and shielded the drinker from physical harm, a little something for tight spots, a few doses of invisibility… 

After I’d packed my belt pouches with all the potions I needed, I opened the first box. The glint of the dull brass rings and amulet in the low lighting greeted me. Not for the first time, I was grateful that Clesyne had given me this set of jewellery: the amulet held an enchantment of nighteye; whilst the rings had spells that constantly cast a general shield against harm and relieved fatigue once triggered. I momentarily regretted that none of the enchanted jewellery I’d been given conferred a chameleon effect or powers of invisbility; that would have been really useful right around now. I shelved the thought to bring up with Clesyne later, and simply put on the various pieces on, making sure they were hidden by my clothes and armour.

I lingered a little longer over my box of potions, before regretfully deciding I was as ready as I could be, given the unknown circumstances I had to deal with. Thumping down the stairs, I let Gilgondorin know where I was headed to, and reminded the innkeeper of his promise to send word to my sister if I didn’t turn up in the next two days. I ignored Gilgondorin’s tactful suggestions that involving myself in the affair was pure stupidity, and hustled out of the door. 

The magic shop Kurdan had mentioned being next to the waterfront and docks was _A Warlock’s Luck_. I started off on a fast jog, that landmark firmly fixed in mind. I recalled it to be nearly straight down the street I was on; the shop was at the very end of it. Reaching my goal, I proceeded past it, turning towards the docks and where I assumed the boat would be, near the wooden steps that led to the river’s edge.

Kurdan was already there, with a Khajiit next to him already sitting and waiting in the boat, both with an oar to either side. I noted, with some unease that the cat-man had a hunting bow slung over his shoulder, the well-cared for weapon showing marks of long use and handled in a way that meant its owner knew his business. 

“I’d have think you wouldn’t care to m-be here, Kurdan,” I said. “You asked me to get your axe, and I will. No need for you to come along.”

“I’d rather know where you are on that island, pretty Breton. Can’t have you running off with my family’s axe, can I? No silly ideas about holding it for ransom either.” The orc’s smile was a cruel thing that made me feel a chill. The thought of holding his axe as surety to let myself and Aleron Loche go had crossed my mind, briefly, but if it hadn’t been an option then, it surely wasn’t now with him watching me.

“You going to follow me all the way into the ruins, then?” I disliked that thought immensely. Last thing I wanted was a huge clumsy warrior behind me that I couldn’t trust not to put a blade in my back, clumping along inviting unfriendly attention and setting off traps. I’d rather have his Khajiit — underling? Partner? — with me, if it came to that. At least the Khajiit knew how to move stealthily from kittenhood; I doubted that Kurdan could manage it.

“Don’t be stupid, woman. If I’d wanted to go myself, why’d I tell _you_ to go get it for _me_ then? Nah, I’m just going to be here, with the only way off the island. If you’re thinking of swimming…The slaughterfish along this stretch of the Bay tend to be rather frisky. Heh heh!” 

With that comforting thought, our boat bumped and scraped up on the gravelly bed of the shore of the small island which was dominated by the fort, or rather, its ruins. I got out of the boat as soon as I could, and looked around, ignoring the orc and Khajiit who were behind me, busily tying up the boat to the small wooden jetty that abutted on the shore.

The exterior of the fort was a bleak place, with great stones from the ruined walls and keep scattered all over the landscape, mostly bare, rocky ground, relieved only by scattered patches of green, long grasses.

“There’s the entrance to the Fort. The axe is in the center, if yer remember what I told you earlier.” Kurdan jerked his thumb in a direction I assumed meant towards an entrance.

“Is Aleron Loche he — he — _here_ on the island?” I asked. The Orc shrugged, and waved a hand.

“I grow tired of your questions. Go find my axe, woman.”

Clearly I wasn’t going to get anything further of use out of him. Time to get to work, indeed.

  


* * *

  


I carefully walked around the area of the ruined fort and its keep, noting various distinctive points of interest and orienting myself. Parts of the old fortress were now underwater, where the tides had washed against stone and mortar, wearing both down. A locked metal gate barred the way into the fort, and my attempts to pick the lock were foiled by the rust that blocked the keyhole. 

Cursing, I started looking for another way to get in. Was the asshole greenskin playing a trick on me?

It took a while and much searching amongst the tumbled before I found a switch of sorts, hidden on the ground amongst the flagstones. Hoping it would open the gates, I turned the wooden handle, wincing at the sound the gate made as it opened. Success! I stepped through the gate, and entered into the ruins of a large circular tower, presumably once the main keep of the fort. Skeletons littered the ground, overgrown with grass and lichen between the cracked paving stones, and the wind moaned and whistled through the cracks and crannies of the crumbled walls. I could almost believe this place was indeeed haunted and there were ghosts just out of sight.

“Oh no…” A wavering voice came from behind me. I spun, startled, hand going to my knife; I breathed out again in relief when I saw who had spoken: an aging Breton man, the scant dark hair he had left already greying. He was dressed simply in fishing waders over a yellowing shirt and leather sandals. He looked solid enough and non-ghostly, if rather pale and worried; his eyes were sunken with large, dark bags under them, as though he had only a little sleep recently.

“Aleron Loche?” The man nodded his head, seemingly momentarily relieved, before his hangdog expression took over again. 

“Did Kurdan send you? Are you here to kill me?” The bluntness of the question was shocking. 

“What? N-no! Your v-vv-wife, she —” I floundered. 

“Ursanne?” Aleron breathed. “No, no, _no_! Kurdan has her too? _Where is she?_ ” 

“No, no, he doesn’t. Your wife ash — _asked_ me to find you. Kurdan said he’d tell me _where_ you were if I found his axe for him.”

Aleron burst out laughing then, a mirthless sound that sounded more hysterical than amused. I wondered if the strain of being here in Kurdan’s power had turned his brains. 

“Divines, of _course_ she’s found a lackwit to come looking for me, of course she did! What luck!” He burst into laughter again even as I bit back an angry retort. “Only a fool would’ve fallen for Kurdan’s story — a fool, just like me, ha ha!” 

I refrained from grabbing him by the collar, though I was sorely tempted to see if shaking him hard might shake some sense out of the babbling. “What are you talking about?”

“I was such an idiot to believe him, same as you did, we’re both idiots.” He wheezed another sound that sounded closer to tears than laughter. “It appears as though Kurdan has tricked another poor soul with his ‘axe’ story.” 

” ‘Axe’ story?”

Aleron’s face was grim and white under the brown tan of his complexion. “How haven’t you guessed it yet? There never was any Axe of Dragol. It was just a ruse to lure you out here, the hunter setting out bait for a fox.” The sinking feeling in my stomach was back, and it brought its friend nausea to play, even as Aleron continued in a voice devoid of anything resembling emotion: “In my case, he told me if I retrieved the axe, he’d forgive my debts.” My right hand began to tingle and grow numb, and my breath grew quicker along with my heartbeat. I barely heard the end of Aleron Loche’s words over the roaring in my ears. 

“He’d marked me out for his next victim, but then you came after me, like he hoped someone would… You’re now the prey in Kurdan’s insane hunt, just like I am. And here, we’ll most likely die.” 

  


* * *

  


I froze there while I struggled to take in the implications of what I’d just heard. A _hunt_? What was there around here to hunt, and who was doing the hunting? _Oh._

“We need to get out go now!” I snapped, seizing the older man and hauling him along towards the gate. Shit, Aleron Loche didn’t look physically fit at all… I was calculating the fastest route back through the rocks and scree to the jetty and its wooden boat, wondering where Kurdan and his Khajiit lackey could be hiding, perhaps watching us. “Come on!” 

The man simply dug in his heels and refused to move more than the few steps I’d managed to drag him. I turned around, ready to blister his ears with swearwords. What the hell was he doing? Was he hanging around to try and get us both killed? 

“Don’t bother. The door to this place is now locked — they’ll have locked it as soon as you came in here. I hope you can fight. It’s our only chance of escaping alive.” The only way to get out alive — Aleron’s words were disheartening, but if I were honest with myself, I’d come here, expecting treachery of some sort, though I hadn’t expected this level of perversity in the Orc. Perhaps I should have. 

Bother it all! What I really wanted to do right now was turn around, find some way to get to the water’s edge and jump into the bay, take my chances with the slaughterfish of the Niben. It sounded better than whatever dark hints Aleron Loche had been babbling about.

Thing was, I was supposed to bring Aleron back to his wife, and I took that to mean in decent condition, or as decent as I could manage under the circumstances. Right now, that meant sitting the man down from his nervous pacing, building a small fire, feeding him with the rations I brought, and making sure he washed them down with a dose of calming potion. After I’d ensured his nerves were settled, I began pumping him for information, which he was glad to part with. 

“Look, on the surface Kurdan looks like he’s mostly legitimate, right? He lends money and charges interest on it, and if his rates are high, and end up higher than just about everyone else, who cares? At least that’s what he likes to pretend he’s doing.” Aleron Loche’s voice was animated with sheer bitter venom, nearly spitting on every mention of Kurdan’s name. “I can tell you now, Kurdan doesn’t make most of his money being a simple usurer.” Here he lapsed into a dour silence, his body visibly trembling even hunched over as he was. 

“Where does he get he septims then?” I prompted the man.

“Hunting.” Aleron’s face twisted into a sneer. 

“Hunting?” A hunt, and _we_ were the prey… Such a remote location, with no one who would miss the victims… and anyone who came looking for them. I shivered, though the fire and the warmth of the day were still strong. 

Aleron nodded, staring into the dying flames, jumping a little whenever a particularly loud crackle was heard. “You get it now, don’t you? He didn’t just invent new and creative ways to extort money in the guise of usury, he also invented what he calls the Hunter’s Run, that’s what makes him most of his fortune. People pay him a great deal of money to hunt and kill living, _human_ prey however they want. No questions asked, and he takes care of the bodies. He uses the dungeons under Fort Grief as the hunting grounds. I was placed here because he knew someone would go looking for me.” He stopped, before looking up at me. 

“It’s wrong of me maybe, but — I’m glad you’re here.” He waved me off as I opened my mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you got mixed up in all of this; I truly am, but I’m not sorry that it’s you here. Not if it means my wife is safe.” He looked defiant, even as I stared back at him. I could feel a nervous excitement of my own that trembled through my limbs, and I resisted the urge to get up from the rock I sat on and start pacing myself, like Aleron himself had earlier. 

Perhaps I should dose myself with that calming potion too, then my hand could stop tingling; it was quite irritating… Oh wait. I only brought the one dose. Pity.

“We need to get out of here, and get you to her and away from this place,” I murmured, and louder, “So how does one ess-scape Kurdan’s hos-hosbi-” I gave up, even as Aleron Loche’s face grew more and more pinched. “Out of Kurdan’s hands?” I finished, lamely, any mood to joke extinguished by the unbelieving despair writ large in the man’s face. I hadn’t forgotten he’d called me a lackwit on our meeting, and so I must seem to him, stumbling over something so simple as speech.

“The only way to get out is by descending into the Hunter’s Run and killing the hunters. One of them will have the key to the door. That’s Kurdan’s rules. It’s the only way we can win.” 

“How m-many hunters?” I asked. 

“I don’t know, three, five? They blindfolded me for the trip across and it was dark when they left me here.” He twisted his fingers together in a nervous habit I recognised from his wife and finally burst out, “I wish I could help more, but I can’t fight, I’ve never held a weapon before in my life! I can’t… blood, oh gods, I — I don’t want to die — get us out of here please — please!” Aleron’s face was a study in miserable fear. 

“I don’t want t-to, either.” I smiled at him, trying to soothe him even as my own stomach twisted with nerves like snakes. “I have a sister to get back to. I’ll do my best.”

“Kurdan is treacherous. Be wary, friend.” I mm-ed absently, running a last check of my inventory. 

“Stem out the embers, and then t-try to cover, stay out of sight.” I stripped off my left gauntlet, removed the ring on that hand, then fumbled around in my pouch and handed him the strongest invisibility potion I had with me. “Invisibility potion, take it if you get seen. Ring’s shield against harm, you know how use?” Loche nodded. “I’ll come back for you when I’ve got the key.” I bent over and removed my boot knife, pressing it into Aleron’s hand. “Hold it like this. Fast teach: Pointy end in other man, see? Try for the soft bits like eyes or stones where you can.” He paled, but gripped the knife harder. “Stab or cut _away_ from yourself. And I’d like my knife back, but if you end up fighting for it, for Talos’s sake don’t let the enemy get hold of the weapon, throw it away if you have to.” He nodded, rather uncertainly. “Chin up, we’ll get out, all right? You’ll see your f-ff- _wife_ again. Wait for me.”

I left him there, hoping he could manage to stay out of sight somehow; hopefully Kurdan and whoever he’d brought to the party were fully focused on _me_ and not him, the poor sod. For an instant, I thought of turning around and going back for him, getting Aleron to follow me into the dungeon. Reason soon reasserted itself though; Aleron Loche was old, untrained and had never been in a fight; he was a liability even if he wasn’t following behind me and bumping into me every three paces, alerting however many people Kurdan had waiting. 

Now was likely the best time to trigger the enchantments on my ring and amulet, before I encountered any enemies. A quick breath out, in, out again, then in, focus. Magic within, concentrated, building like a storm. Ignore the growing pain, let it build further… 

I released the gathered power, and tried not to scream as what felt like thousands of little burning sparks licked across my skin. Gods damn but that feeling never got any less worse, even when you knew it was coming! The feeling settled into a steady prickle marking the sensation peculiar to active magic; I breathed hard, squinting against the glare of a night eye enchantment active in full light. 

If only… I tried to remember what using magic and enchanted objects had once been like without pain, and couldn’t.

I shook my head, took a deep breath, and ran down the stairs that lead into the keep’s bowels.

  


* * *

  


The first obstacle in my way was a stout wooden door of oak, its timbers cross braced and barred, with a heavy iron door ring. It was unlocked, however, and I opened it, inwardly swearing as the door groaned and creaked on its hinges, swinging inwards. From the half opened gap, I saw that the door opened onto a long corridor, lit with a few torches at the end where there was a stairway. I slipped through as soon as the opening was wide enough to admit me, and shut the door as gently as possible. The door closing still made a heavy _clunk_ , but not as loud as the _thunk_ from outside that made me whip around, heart beating rapidly. I pushed against the door, as hard as I could muster, but to no avail— the door was barred from the outside. 

There would be no returning that way. Resigned, I faced forwards to whatever was coming next. I crept along the walls, going by feel as much as sight. The shadows were thick and the air musty and damp; I rubbed at my nose a little as it’d started to itch. 

Some ways in, a locked ironwork gate was set into the wall on my left. I peered through the bars, noting that it seemed to hold stone furniture and some barrels. I tested the lock, wondering if I could pick it, but the lock proved impossible to move with picks alone. 

Moving on, I stepped around a large crack in the stone flooring, before descending the stairs, which weren’t very long. So far, so good; all that was visible from the faint light of the torches above were more stone walls. The path ahead was long and faded off into the darkness; a split off to the right led behind a corner I couldn’t see around from where I was standing. Go right, or stay in the present direction? 

Going right seemed to be the more appealing choice; from previous explorations in similar ruins, I didn’t think that there would be a long passageway in that direction; a short way at most. If it did prove to stretch for a considerable length, I could retrace my steps. Thus decided, I took that way. I kept myself on alert, expecting to be set on at any moment. 

A dozen steps or so in, and I met my first hunter. The Imperial rushed me, bellowing as he slashed madly with the shortsword he carried as I ducked and dodged his swings, drawing my sword as I went. 

No shield and light leather armour, no helm, heavyset build. Wild pattern of attacks, with little science behind his movements: this one clearly was all about the offensive and a shite fighter to boot, who didn’t seem to know how to deal with anything that could actually fight back. The number of gaps he left open was incredible and the way he signalled every move before he made it — I felt vaguely insulted. The poor fool actually left his right side open to attack every other swing or so, and didn’t seem to even realise it. By the Sword of Ebonarm, may all the gods of war and battles curse me for a fool, if I didn’t take advantage of _that_ stupidity!

I brought up my shield and blocked a blow that’d gotten close, quickly falling back as I reassessed his prowess. That blow had been powerful — not quite enough to impair, but strong enough to cause me worry — I had more skill, but he’d have the advantage once he tired me past the point my ring’s magic could replenish. Time to finish this; there were an unknown number of enemies left to fight, the less time spent on this cretin the better. 

I parried another blow aimed at my head, threw a punch at his face in riposte and waited for my chance, angling my blade upwards and to the left. There! The Imperial’s reckless move to follow through earned him a foot of good Colovian steel through the right of his chest. The sword made a terrible rasping crunch as it grated past his ribcage. A gurgle, a wet cough, and he went limp, dragging my sword blade downwards as the fresh corpse slid off the blade.

One down, two or four more to go. Excellent. Searching the corpse produced a key and random small coins, which I pocketed — the dead man surely had no need of it any more after all. 

Now where might the lock I needed to open be? My guess was, wherever it was lay further ahead. 

Onwards, then. I just hoped that Aleron Loche was staying out of trouble above ground.

  


* * *

  


Slogging through the dungeon was cold and nasty, among other descriptions. Here and there, parts of the passageways I had to go through were underwater, meaning I had to swim to get to the next patch of dry ground. I kept a wary eye on the ground for trap triggers. The occasional mouldering skeleton of some poor sod broke the monotony of dirt on stone, and did nothing to ease my tense nerves. Here and the occasional hidden and not so hidden chest (those were booby-trapped of course) was set out, presumably to aid the hunters and whatever prey they were after, prolonging the ‘game’. I saw no reason not to leave those unraided — less help for them meant more chances of living for me, and I looted any useful potions and gear I could carry, ruining the rest.

Apart from being wet and chilled, I worried about the trail of mud and water I was leaving behind me; not even an invisibility potion could hide water once it dripped off my person. On the bright side, I found a nirnroot growing in a crevice, wonder of wonders.

Traversing the corridors, I encountered a Breton, who made life tricky with his fireballs; two dosed arrows to his legs left him on the ground moaning. Those moans soon quieted.

I didn’t usually poison my weapons. Such methods were distasteful in outright combat — if my aunt Siona could see me now, by Leki would I ever be in for it! — then again, any notion of fairness in this situation had gone right out of the equation before I’d set foot on this blasted island. I needed every advantage I could get here, and if it meant bending honour in battle, so be it. 

Rummaging through the deceased’s pockets produced a second key, which I noticed was different from the first one. 

Here was an interesting conundrum: Two men, two different keys. That suggested that one must be the correct copy; with no way to know which was the right key, I’d have to face and fight however many hunters were down here. A less likely option would be that I’d need all of the keys from all the hunters just to get the locked door open. In any case, unless I could question one of them, I was stuck with trying to find all of the hunters and taking their keys. 

_“Kurdan’s rules, one hunter should have the key to the door”_. Thank you for that load of horse shit, Aleron.

The long twisting corridors continued; I spotted the first signs of a trap overhead, just before I crossed a long bridge across a gap of sorts. Soon I was picking my way through a set of swinging mace traps, rolling and tucking as sharp spikes and heavy wood swished overhead. I breathed hard as I cleared the last one, trying to regain my bearings before standing up, then walking onwards up another set of stairs. Was there no end to the stairs in this place? The old-time Legions seemed too bloody fond of the things here. 

The rasp of steel on leather saved me from being surprised and skewered. 

“Fuck!” Swing — miss. I struck out again — hit! My opponent, a huge brawny Nord shrugged it off like a dog does a flea.

The Nord brayed laughter as he swung again. His longsword and height gave him a large advantage in terms of reach, and meeting his sword, edge to flat, all but numbed my arms with the impact. I scrambled back, grunting as I blocked his rain of blows before freezing, and then flailing forward as I felt my left heel step back into nothing. I rolled forward, feeling the pain of a sharp slice to the shoulder. Up again, dodge, dodge, bash his chest with the shield, duck, try to take his feet from out under him — fail. 

I had to get him over the edge of that pit, but how? 

We both circled around each other, a tight orbit staying well away from the edge and the drop to a sharp end, breathing hard, weapons up and ready. There was loose gravel all over where we were fighting — if I could get him to lose his footing I might have a chance. 

Feint left, cut to the right; duck down — left, left! 

My left hand, full of grit-laden gravel all but slammed right into his face. The massive brute howled, swinging in arcs grown larger and wilder. I wove around and under, as he stumbled blindly to where he thought I was. I stuck a foot out. The man stumbled into it and tripped. A sweeping kick to his feet, and over he went, gravel crunching, dust flying, accompanied by a scream and snapping wood, as I rolled away from the edge my enemy hadn’t been able to see. Silence.

I waited for the dust to settle further, before peering over the edge of the pit. The man was spread-eagled, the sharp-pointed stakes at the bottom poking through his chest. The poison on the stakes was dark and highly visible to my nighteye enhanced vision, the _plop-plop-plop_ sound of blood trickling down the only break in the silence. I shuddered and turned away before losing the contents of my stomach.

Wiping my mouth against the back of my gauntlet, spitting to remove the dust and sour taste from my mouth, I squared my shoulders and slowly walked back to the edge of the pit, before carefully dropping down into it to search the dead man. I still had to get the key from this one.

Clutching the bloody key, I clambered out, once again thankful for my training in acrobatics. The smell of blood still filled my nose. As I’d expected, this third key was yet again different from the two already in my possession. Did each hunter have their own particular exit from this place? Or — the clarity of this thought broke in on me — did _any_ of them even have the right key? Kurdan had shown himself treacherous; I could easily imagine him controlling who got in and out and when.

Still nothing I could do about it in that case though, except continue to play on in this perversion of a game. Nine _rot_ the bastards who were down here thinking this was good fun! 

Two more Imperials attempted to ambush me with a rockslide: I surprised them instead with their own prepared trap. The muffled screaming was unpleasant.

I continued on, turning down a corner and hastily backing out of it again, as darts whistled past. Shit, must’ve been a pressure plate; ah, no, it was a trip wire. 

I could just hear my sister scolding me in my head, upbraiding me for my lapse of attention. I breathed in deeply to settle my nerves after the scare I’d had, and then realised that the air smelled funny. 

Vapour misted thinly across my vision. _Gas!_

I turned tail and sped back down the hallway, already starting to feel my nose and throat burn and tighten. Thrusting a hand into my waist pouch, I fumbled out vial after vial, vision blurring from lack of air and sharp pangs of nausea. After what seemed an eternity, I managed to find the general poison cure I had stored and choked that down, coughing and wheezing. 

Slowly I managed one whole breath, and then another, eyes tearing. Whatever that gas had been, it was nasty. The curative had taken care of most of it, but I still felt weak, nauseated, and was seeing double, as though I’d just been concussed. Shooting my bow would be a lot harder in this condition.

I got back to my feet, waiting half-crouched for the world to slow down its spinning into something reasonably stationary, then stumbled back the way I’d come; I’d managed to notice another flight of stairs headed downwards towards the end of the corridor before the gas and darts. 

My head was pounding by the time I made it to the door at the end of the corridor. Sinking down in front of it to rest for a while, I closed my eyes, massaging my head and scalp willing the pain and nausea to ease. I could not have said how long I stayed there, slumped against the door, but I felt better for the break. 

Up again — slowly — and then I started trying every key I’d collected. One of them worked, the lock clicking open. I swung the door open, and stepped through to whatever awaited.

  


* * *

  


A steep stairway, slippery with lichen, fortunately well lit by torches, led downwards. I was highly cautious now: were I Kurdan, I’d have kept the better hunters back for this juncture. Whoever else was left down here, probably was a harder foe than the five I’d dispatched above. 

Several blind corridors and crumbled stones later, then being startled by a rat, I was starting to get rather grumpy. Finding a mostly clear passageway, I advanced cautiously. This time I saw the gas wisping upwards from a pot on the ground — and a pressure plate I absolutely couldn’t avoid stepping on due to the narrowness of the passageway. More darts and poison fumes. Marvellous. 

The air down here was still, though, which meant whatever noxious vapours that were being emitted, were staying fairly stationary. I looked at the pressure plate, and the distance between it and the gas. I should be able to make it through the darts just holding my breath, if I moved fast and carefully. Tall order, given my head was still swimming from my last encounter with the vapour, but needs must. 

A last look to assess the line of attack, a linen rag from my pouch wrapped across my mouth and nose, and _go!_. 

Nearing the fuming pot, I started hugging closer to the walls, narrowing my eyes to slits, breathing fast and shallowly. One deep gasp of air and I was sprinting for dear life. 

One, two, jump — and I was through to the other side, the misty vapour scarcely shifting even as I leaped past it to temporary safety and clean air. Darts thunked into my shield or hissed harmlessly by. I kept on running, and was soon clear. 

I examined my armour for any stray darts, fearing being poisoned by accident, and regretting not bringing more poison cures. A deep basso growl alerted me to the fact that I was no longer alone. 

“Must be getting slow if I’m only just catching up to you, maggot. Seems I better cut down on the ale!” I stabbed at him but had to abort the move as the heavy mace head nearly made contact with my face. Several more swings of my sword won a grunt; I’d pinked him nicely on the forearm. “You’ve some spirit in you. I like that!” A charge that I sidestepped, slashing at the Orc again. He laughed, and paused to lick the blood off his arm. 

The Orc wielded his huge mace effortlessly, like it was part of his arm. I was in no mood to appreciate his fine display of fighting skills however, since I was too busy avoiding the blunt and painful death the mace-strokes promised. A sharp pain went up my left arm as my shield broke. 

“Let’s get this over with!” The greenskin sounded cheerful as his heavy shield slammed into my face. I turned my head aside at the last moment, letting the cheek pieces of my helm catch the main force of the blow. Everything spun and my head rang like a bell, no breath left as I hit the ground. I licked my lips, which were suddenly, painfully dry. A booted foot rolled me over. 

The Orc was grinning down at me. Bastard didn’t even have the decency to look winded. 

“Beg, little maggot, and I might just let you live a little longer. Until I’m done with you.” I didn’t want to think what he meant by that. 

If I was going to die here — hell, so be it. But I wasn’t going to _beg_. I was of the Hillfolk, no matter how many years I’d been away from home, and _begging_ in any form was unthinkable.

I spoke slowly, both to make sure I got my words right, and to cover up any sound that might give away what I was doing… “Can’t. Your mama never taught me how.”

The Orc roared — and charged forwards, mace readied to end me then and there. It also brought him nicely within range for me to kick him in the balls. He doubled over, and I sunk a dagger into his arm, rolling away as he sank to his knees. I watched, intent, as paralysis overtook him. 

“The key to out.” I pointed upwards. “Who? You?” The Orc spat in my face. I wiped my face, and stared back at him. The poison should be creeping its way up now towards his chest. Soon he showed the first signs of hyperventilation, as he found himself getting short of air. 

I held my bow up, making sure he could see it; he was fading rapidly. That’s the trick of it; the bigger the target, the faster the poison worked to choke off their air supply. “There’s no cure for you except die. I’ll end it fast if you say what I question you, or you can choke to death. Slowly.”

The Orc chose to die in slow silence. 

I didn’t bother to stay and watch.

  


* * *

  


I wandered about a little, until I stumbled onto a passageway, this one long and made of hard packed earth and not stone. It looked newer than the rest of the ruins — an addition made by Kurdan? It seemed to be fairly straight and slanted upwards. Upwards was good. My head was killing me, as was my arm — I suspected the bone there was cracked, and would need the attentions of the closest healer or priest to mend properly when I got back to Bravil. For now though, I swigged a healing potion that eased the soreness and cleared my vision somewhat, and munched on a handful of dried fruit. That would have to tide me over until later.

The passageway was long and winding, but blessedly free of traps and hunters — I dared to believe I’d actually gotten them all, and really, 6 hunters in this spot was surely the limit?

 _Hiss-thunk!_ I jerked back as the arrow thudded uncomfortably close to my feet. Where — 

Shit. I really should’ve expected this. Kurdan’s Khajiit friend was here guarding what definitely looked like the way out. I backed up, behind the bend I just passed, spitting out a stream of oaths as I stowed my bow, which miraculously had taken little damage and not been lost so far through the fighting. Against my other opponents, I’d had a slim advantage in that my amulet granted me superior night vision; the Khajiit’s night vision was probably better than mine, magical facsimile of the Khajiiti natural gift that it was. 

Bow against bow in the dark; a contest of speed and nerve. Well fuck that. Did he _really_ think I was going to indulge him in a shooting contest? In the dark? 

I drew my long knife from its sheath, upending the acrid contents of yet another vial over the blade. 

He’d cornered me and then all but announced his presence, stupid move. He’d then failed to come after me further as I retreated, doubly stupid. I wanted to live, more than he wanted to kill me. That Khajiit was going to regret his actions thoroughly in whatever time he had left to live. Poisoned blade in hand, I crouched and charged at full speed, zig-zagging to throw off the Khajiit’s aim. 

He sure wasn’t expecting me to charge him — what crazy bastard runs up to an archer with bow already in hand?

That surprise, and the momentary indecision it created cost him. I threw a punch at his head with my left fist, then slashed him with the dagger in my right, across the forearm he’d brought up on instinct, ducking his flailing with the bow; then punched him again in the stomach before slashing at his torso and rolling away. He was already sinking to the floor by the time I came out of my roll. 

Stepping over the soon-to-be corpse, now frothing at the mouth, I stooped down and slit his throat. It wasn’t nice, but I had no inclination left to be nice. It’d been a very long day and any goodwill or kindness I had were exhausted. All I really wanted was for this bullshit to be over, the faster the better. 

And so the last of Kurdan’s lackeys died. Dumbass. 

The exit was close: in fact I nearly smacked straight into it. Definitely needed to stay awake here. The key I’d taken off the dead Khajiit opened it; this door, unlike the others in this ruin opened smoothly and quietly, the creak it made hardly louder than the wind whistling outside. I turned off the night eye enchantment with a profound relief; straightening as the constant tickle of the enchantments lessened dramatically. 

I circled around the side of the ruined tower, ready to duck as soon as needed. Kurdan was still out here, for all I knew, unless he’d sodded off back to Bravil already, in which case Aleron Loche and I would be stranded here until he came back.

Puffing up a rise, I dropped down onto my belly as voices came on the wind. I wriggled forward, mentally groaning as I found the situation I least wanted: Aleron Loche, tied up, miserable, bruised and bloody, staring up at Kurdan gro-Dragol. Gods _damn_ it all. 

“Don’t expect your pretty Breton _saviour_ — ” he sneered on that last, “to come out of there alive, Loche! Ra’jhera will make sure of that, if nothing else.” Loche said something, but the momentary shift in wind direction made me miss the wording. I winced as Kurdan backhanded the man in reply. 

“Now all this stewing in your own misery you’ve been doing’s been fun to watch, but I’m tired of it now. Time to finish it.” _The hell he would!_

The wind was now blowing towards the two on the lower ground, but not very strongly. The light was fast fading, but I could still see clearly, and little glare. Good conditions for a spot of archery. I stood, drawing as I went and willing my dodgy left arm to hold steady. 

Kurdan’s arm arose, dagger in hand, poised for the killing blow. 

The hand fell. A scream.

I took the shot. 

Kurdan gro-Dragol’s time on Nirn ended on the point of a single arrow.


	7. Chapter 7

I carried Aleron Loche back to the Chapel — no easy task, that, since he was much bulkier than he looked under his clothing. On arriving at the Chapel, Loche’s anxious wife rushed forward to embrace him, before stopping short in dismay as she took in his condition. 

I’d done my best to administer aid before we rowed back to the town, but Loche had been very badly beaten up, to the point of having bones broken, after my protective ring had been taken from him. He’d sunk into unconsciousness on the way back. Chapel healers rushed to bear him into the adjacent healing rooms, Ursanne following silently behind them, and there was much shouting and calling for various healing aids and potions.

I’d managed to reclaim my ring off of Kurdan’s corpse back at the fort, but the knife was gone. Ah well. 

I left the healers to their work on Aleron, but not before snagging a junior healer and asking him to examine my arm. He confirmed my suspicions of a crack in the bone, gave me a vial of healing potion, several minutes” treatment with Healing Hands, and an injunction not to strain that arm for the next week or so. He was called away soon after though, and I left, heading back to the _Silverhome_. 

Gilgondorin was very kind not to mention how wrecked I looked, though he insisted I take a hot bath in the basement using the laundry coppers, for which I was very grateful. Dragging my weary body up the stairs again, I politely declined Gilgondorin’s offers of the evening meal, and went to pour myself into bed instead.

Dawn came, and I lay there, sore, tired and reluctant to even get up, never mind ride a horse. I felt like I could sleep for a week or so. Yet, sleep had come uneasily, punctuated by nightmares of bone and blood and harsh laughter. The Orc hunter had made a bigger impression than I wanted to admit. Still, it had been two weeks now since we’d first received this assignment; this would be the fifth day since Clesyne had gone on to Anvil. I was going to have to make greater speed to catch up to her. Or an earlier start, to spare my horse. I could doubtless dose poor Crystal with potions to fortify her speed and stamina, but I’d rather not do so, except as a last resort: repeated dosing of potions built resistance, and most riders and horse breeders frowned on these means of artificially boosting performance: it invariably cost the horse’s physical health dearly. 

Washed, dressed and packed, I hefted my saddlebags downstairs — it was long past time to put Bravil behind me. Coming down however, I met someone I hadn’t been expecting to see here, nor this early: Ursanne Loche, face pale and worn in the morning light shining through a window. I felt a frisson of worry. Why was she here?

“How is he?” My voice was raspy.

“He was very close to dying, but near dawn the fever broke, and the healers at the chapel now say he will be well with time to heal. The splint you made saved his leg, though he will have a limp for the rest of his life.” Her smile was brilliant and transformed her plainess into something unique — for a moment I could see the fresh young woman she had been, once. “You saved him. You brought him home. I don’t know how to thank you.”

I stiffened as she embraced me — my ribs and stomach were hurting from the abuse they’d had yesterday. Her expression was still one of wonder and joy as she let me go. “Mara surely must have sent you to us.”

I didn’t know how to respond except by shaking my head. “You l-l-love him. Least I could do. Happy t-to help.”

Ursanne’s mouth parted, then closed. Suddenly she was all brisk business, as she retrieved a book from the bag she was carrying with her. “It’s not much, but it’s what we have to spare.” I looked at the book, with its incomprehensible (to me) lettering. “Keep it, or sell it, if you like; but take it, with our thanks.”

“Will you away — _leave_ Bravil n-now?” I asked. 

“Soon. Aleron needs time to heal, and we need more money, but yes. We will go — he’s finally agreed with me it’s time to go back to our kinfolk in Dunlain.”

“Farewell, then; we won’t be look each other again. Luck with you.”

“And with you.”

  


* * *

  


Crystal was fresh and spoiling for a ride, almost prancing as we got underway. I suspected the stablehands hadn’t exercised her properly as much as they ought. 

My next destination on the way to Anvil was the relatively southerly city of Skingrad, set in the rich lands of the West Weald which produced some of the finest vintages in Cyrodiil. The famous Surilie brothers had their vineyards and winery there; their wines were served at some of the highest tables in the Empire; the equally renowned Tamika wines were also grown, pressed and bottled here. 

The West Weald was the bread basket of Cyrodiil: much of the province’s wheat was grown in its lush bountiful fields, along with much of the province’s other food. Warm, semi-marshy Nibenay produced the varied types of rice that formed a staple for the general populace, as well as the ancestor moth silks and Akaviri-style rice wines coveted by the rich; but the broad valleys between the Weald’s low hills and scattered woodlands, with their fertile soils, longer growing season compared to the highlands, and a more temperate climate, supplied almost everything else in the common man’s diet from corn to potatoes and beans. The countryside around Skingrad had been called a gourmet’s paradise, as the various small farms and dairies in the region produced excellent artisanal cheeses with unique flavours and ingredients, and some of the best tomatoes and olives to be found anywhere were grown here. 

I liked Skingrad, even though an extended visit usually meant adding an extra notch to my belt. Salmo’s sweetrolls were famed throughout Cyrodiil, and I had a raging sweet tooth. Alas, I probably wouldn’t have time for side-tripping once there though; I still had a nine day journey ahead of me. Once I’d gotten to Skingrad, hopefully I could find a boat that would take me and my horse down the River Strid, hugging the coast until it reached Anvil.

By day five, Crystal was showing not- so- subtle signs of tiredness. I let her drop to a canter more often than not, led her at a walk for longer distances and took more frequent breaks; the slower pace was easier on both of us, and as long as I managed to forage and hunt or fish for food, as well as covered the total distance I’d planned for that day, riding later into the night hours wasn’t a big deal. My ribs and stomach still ached when I moved too fast and riding was still a constant pain — mounting up, without a convenient rock or mounting block, was a special form of torture. It was getting better though, each day hurt a little less. 

The journey so far had been relatively peaceful: so far the only problem I’d had was a night encounter with the local wildlife in the form of a timber wolf and the rest of its pack, and I’d driven them off handily with fire and arrows and the help of Crystal’s sharp hooves. The morning of day six brought rain. Not a downpour, but in fits and starts, a grey drizzle more mist than water that obscured the road. I was dozing atop Crystal, her even gait and the occasional splash of watery mud lulling me into inattention. 

That peace soon ended as an arrow whizzed past Crystal’s legs. She reared up, dumping me out of the saddle and into the mud.

Spluttering and scrambling up, I drew my knife, seeing how Crystal had bolted ahead with my bow and most of my weaponry. I _hate_ bandits, particularly ones with bows. Especially when I didn’t have my own bow handy. 

Another arrow whizzed by, parting the hair on my head. I knew where the bandit was now, well his general direction anyway. I went for cover behind more bushes, and snuck my way towards where the arrows had been fired from. 

We surprised each other, the bandit and I. I found — not a male, as I’d expected, but a Redguard woman, lightly armoured, dark curly hair spilling past her shoulders, who was silently creeping away from a little hollow in the ground. I gave her no chance to react and sprang on her, knife aimed for her throat. The Redguard seized hold of my knife arm with amazing speed, and forced me to loose my grip on the knife. 

Punch, kick, try to sweep the _raga_ ’s legs from under her, avoid her kick in return; grappling for holds, duck _again_ , rolling and rolling and rolling over in confusion. I had the knife back one moment, then the next minute I’d lost hold of it and the Redguard woman did, and was attempting to stab me. I bit her wrist hard enough to taste blood, and got my nose bloodied in return. I was disoriented, but hung on and wrestled her around by the hair, before she got the upper hand again.

In the end, it was by sheer accident that I killed her. After trading a fast series of punches, I’d head-butted her before shoving her hard. She spun on the wet grass and stumbled backwards before tripping on a hidden hole, landing awkwardly. Her neck made a loud crack as it snapped. 

I approached her where she lay, wary of a trick; but no, she was indeed dead. 

I wiped off the blood still streaming from my nose, and sighed as I scanned the area for means of raising a mound, or some kind of burial. No loose rocks around that I could move on my own, but there were large branches I could use to cover her dead body. That might save it from scavengers for a while. I got down to work quickly, mostly using my right hand since the left now hurt abominably. The quick disposal accomplished, I started limping up the road, puffing a bit as the level of the road grew steadily higher. Hopefully Crystal hadn’t been spooked so far as to run beyond my ability to find her. I really wanted one of the healing potions in my bags now. 

I walked some two or three miles by my reckoning, before I finally found Crystal by the side of the road, reins trailing on the ground, cropping on the grass. She was skittish around me — likely due to the smell of all the blood that had dried on my armour; I needed to wash and oil it later. I fished out the healing potion, drank it down and then mounted up, with much more discomfort than earlier.

Julianos as my witness, I just couldn’t wait to get back to civilisation.

  


* * *

  


I pushed Crystal a bit harder again after that, and she responded beautifully, like the excellent horse she was. After my encounter, I was careful to scan the areas I passed through continuously for signs of ambush. I wasn’t going to be caught literally napping yet again!

As we got closer to the more inhabited areas of the Weald, the woods and forests gave way to small homesteads and cottages with their herb and vegetable gardens, interspersed with villages and their larger fields where sheep and cattle grazed, and the nodding heads of wheat hung swaying in the breeze, awaiting ripening and the harvest.

The high turreted walls of Skingrad coming into view, just around the crest of the road were a welcome sight in the morning light, nine days since I’d set out from Bravil. I nudged Crystal into something approaching a trot, and we arrived at the _Grateful Pass Stables_ , where I left Crystal contentedly resting and munching on hay and grass under the watchful eyes of Ugak gra-Mogakh, the local ostler. I was honestly worn out, but needs must, no matter how much I was yawning and my treacherous brain wandered to thoughts of my bedroll, or more preferrably, a bed; so I continued to the gates of the city and entered, just as the carillon of the Great Chapel of Julianos rang out across the city, the hauntingly beautiful treble chimes giving way to seven deep-toned strokes of the hour bell.

Skingrad’s prosperity under its notoriously reclusive wizard-Count was apparent in the clean, bustling streets, numerous well-kept stone-built homes with their bright flower-filled windowboxes, and the fine granite and marble faced buildings, the happy faces of the denizens and the shining steel plate the Skingrad City Guard wore as they kept an eye on the goings-on. The vendors crying their prices in the numerous markets raised a fair din as I threaded my way through the city’s large business district, which had been seeing more and more spillover into the housing areas, to the complaints of the local residents.

The goods sold in Skingrad’s markets, which stretched in an untidy straggle on both sides of the highway that bisected the city, rivalled that of the capital for available variety, and certainly outdid it in terms of pricing. Here in the bazaars, colourfully dressed merchants of all the ten races could be found selling everything and anything, from large wheels of cheese to fresh green produce, jerked meats and preserves and fruit, cheap trinkets and baked goods, as well as other, more exotic things in the windows of smaller shops built inside the thick walls that bordered the highway: here was limeware and precious handblown glass, exotically coloured by the ashes of Red Mountain used in their making, transported carefully over long miles of harsh roads from Morrowind; mammoth ivory scrimshaw from Skyrim, delicately and ornately carved, displayed on rich velvet cushions in the window of another, exotic spices from Hammerfell and peppers from Elsweyr in a third.

I’d have loved to have actually gotten a closer look at the scrimshaw, but first, information. Clesyne and I generally stayed at the _Two Sisters Lodge_ , over in the southern half of the city and nestled amongst residents’ homes, when we were here. Clesyne would have stopped here on her way to Anvil, surely; perhaps she had left a message, or better yet, she might’ve delayed and I was in time to meet with her, at last. I picked up my pace.

Mog gra-Mogakh, Ugak’s sister ran the inn, and was well used to holding messages for the both of us, being that we were fairly frequent customers at her inn, had been since we’d both first come to Cyrodiil. As soon as she saw me come through the door, she hailed me. “If it’s not the little baby Aswyth! Got a message for you from your big sister, about a week ago now! I say, I’d expected you to be along sooner than this. What kept you?” Her tone was teasing.

A week? I totalled up the days in my head and compared that to the speed I’d estimated her to be travelling at, and blinked. Clesyne had gotten quite a headstart on me, that was true, but ahead by a whole _week_? The only way I could think she’d managed it was by casting multiple spells on her horse to improve its speed and stamina, but even the best horse fortified in this manner couldn’t sustain that kind of pace for long, it was the same issue with potion use all over again. Was she actually intending on riding her horse until it dropped dead? Zenithar send her wisdom! Had she managed to forget we weren’t exactly rich any longer? And she claimed I spent money indiscriminately — hah!

“W-what did mm-my sister — ” I stumbled badly on the words, my tired brain still thrown, suddenly having to grope haltingly for words as I hadn’t had to in over a year. One used the _tongue_ to — “say! What did she say?” 

Mog frowned, before opening the drawers of her counter and searching the contents, pulling out things and plonking them every which way on the counter top. I watched with a detached sort of interest, as bits of string, used candle stubs, a handful of small coins and assorted odds and ends were produced, the Orc woman’s brow beetled in concentration. “Wrote it down — now where has that bit of paper got to? — Ah-ha!” She produced a scrap of paper and waved it above her head in triumph. “Knew it had to be there.”

“My n-note, puh-please?” Gods damn it, I needed more sleep. But catching up to Clesyne and getting on Frothi’s trail was more important…

Mog squinted a little at the writing; it was an open secret her eyesight at close range was a bit poor: still not something one brought up in her hearing unless one wanted a literal boot up the backside and out the door though. “Right. She said, _“I’ve been told Frothi knows we’re after him. The word I had is that he’s taken the land road back to Skyrim. I’m still going down to Anvil just in case that was a false trail; you get to Bruma as quickly as you can, and head him off there. I’m counting on you, little sister.”_

I couldn’t help it; I groaned and let out a string of expletives best not repeated, cursing the situation, the bears, the damn thieves on the road, the weather that had delayed me 2 days before Bravil, my luck and the gods in general. Mog marched out from behind her counter and pushed me down effortlessly onto the closest stool.

“Hey, enough of the blasphemy and swearing here. I run a family establishment, you know. You get a pass _this_ time because I can see you’re absolutely tired out of your skull, baby Aswyth. Siddown, lemme get you a drink. When’s the last time you slept in a real bed?”

I shook my head. “Bravil.” I rubbed at the left arm, which had been very painful since my tussle with the Redguard bandit three days previous — so much for the injunction against further straining it — and noticed my right hand was visibly trembling. I tried to stand back up, only to find my knees had somehow been replaced by scrib jelly or something. The room swum and circled, lazily. I sat back down in a hurry.

Mog tutted. “You poor thing. Now don’t even think of getting up until you’ve finished that — ” A mug of hot tea found its way to my hand, and I dazedly sipped, coughing at the strong taste. “Tea’s on the house. No, don’t you dare start with me — ” I shut my mouth, biting back the protest I’d been about to issue, as the woman bustled around, coming back with a large hot bowl of porridged rice and oats in milk with honey and fruit.

“Three bulls, that’ll cover the porridge — and a bed for the afternoon, so you can have a few hours’ rest at least. Going out there this tired will only kill you through carelessness, and then where would I be without one of my most loyal customers?” Her tone was acerbic, but there was also a warming concern belying the brusque words. I didn’t protest, merely dug out my waning store of coins and counted out three silver pieces.

“Eat, eat! I assume you’ll want to start for Bruma today? You _should_ stay here and rest; your sister’s hardly going to thank you — or me! — if you keel over in the wilds.” Mog’s frown at the idea was truly disapproving. I had a sudden image of Jeelius with nearly the exact same look on his face and cracked up, laughing till the tears fell down my cheeks. “S-sorry, sorry — is, a-a — another f-friend, he gave me t-that eye too back in Imperial City.” Mog’s glare was withering, even for an Orc. My giggle fit subsided, but still burst out as little snorts from time to time as I ate my porridge.

“Go on up, your usual room’s open. But don’t fall into bed just yet, I’m sending the boy up with water for a wash.” Mog sniffed delicately, an odd thing to see in a woman with tusks jutting from her lower jaw. “No offense, but you smell terrible.”

I rolled my eyes, but made my way up the stairs, slowly, with ample dignity. I wasn’t weaving up the stairs like a drunk, no matter what Mog was hooting behind me. Her vision did have some trouble after all.

  


* * *

  


When I awoke from my nap, it was three in the afternoon and I felt much refreshed and in less pain; much as I hated to admit it, Mog had been right — continuing my journey to Bruma right away then would’ve been a bad idea. With how tired I was, the stirrups might not have saved me from dozing and falling off my horse. Speaking of my horse, Crystal too needed the longer rest; I’d noticed that her cinch straps needed more tightening than they had at the beginning of our journey. Too bad for us we needed to get moving quick. A week ago — Frothi could’ve left the province by now. The odds were high that we’d need to cross the border into Skyrim to chase after him. 

It wasn’t a thought I relished; Skyrim in winter was _cold_ , and it was our quarry’s home territory, where Frothi’s friends and clansmen no doubt would happily shelter him against inquiries from outsiders. Searching for him would be three times harder at least, if that were the case.

No use borrowing trouble though; we just had to keep working under the assumption that Frothi hadn’t scarpered through the Pale Pass and crossed the Jeralls yet — and had the bears with him of course. Still, _Bruma_. Cool all year round, _cold_ in the autumn and winter seasons, starting now since it was already Last Seed, though still early in the month. I hate the cold.

Taking advantage of Mog’s stores, I restocked my food supply with oats, salted bacon, cheese, and fruits both dried and fresh, as well as a large skin of wine. Mog threw in for free a large packet of her famous twice-baked spiced biscuits as I was wrapping up my purchases; all of which made a handy bundle into my pack, since my saddlebags were still in the care of the stables. I reckoned that what I’d bought would be enough to last me through the nearly fourteen days’ journey to Bruma, appropriately supplemented by foraging off the land, of course. Also, there would likely be farmsteads along the roads at intervals, at least all through the Weald; I could buy food from them as well, if need be.

I walked out of the inn in a hurry; I wanted to make one last stop at Sinderion’s basement dwelling before leaving, and it was coming up on four hours past noon. The _West Weald Inn_ , where Sinderion lived, sold potions and did his research in its basement, was over in the north half of the city, the Old City, back when Rislav the Righteous and his family had held the rule of Skingrad, many centuries ago. 

The Altmer was surprised to see me. “Arliene Aswyth! Quite a while since you last darkened the doorway of my little home. What brings you here today? Did you find anymore nirnroot? Oh, and how has that potion I made for your headaches been working? Satisfactorily, I hope?” He set down the mortar and pestle in his hand, containing some greenish mixture I couldn’t make out the specifics of. 

“It’s t-that p-potion I wanted to speak to you about, Sinderion.” I unslung the pack from my back, reached in and removed Sinderion’s headache formulation from it. “I h-had a very bad attack in the Imperial City, about…” I paused to recall how long it’d been since, “three weeks ago now, the 12th of Sun’s Height. I took a dose of your p-potion at the time, just before m-most of tt-the, the — symptoms, hit. It tasted h-horrible at that point, but I took it before in Morrowind before that and I oath it wasn’t so foul. The potion didn’t seem to f-function like it had either — it might’ve made it worse though, because of the throwing up, all very bad.” I paused, before delicately asking him, “Do your potions ever — go off?” The old Altmer blinked, uncomprehending. “Get spoiled,” I explained bluntly, since delicacy didn’t seem to work so well with Sinderion on the whole.

Sinderion was affronted. “My dear girl! I am a professional alchemist! I have only the highest standards as required of graduates of the Imperial Alchemical Academy! I have never, I repeat, _never_ sold or given away a potion without protection against spoilage! You could subject my potions to extreme heat, large magickal discharges and bitter cold in rapid succession, and the potion would remain as it was, I assure you.” He stretched out a long fingered hand, fingers flicking in demand. “Well? Hand it over, Arliene. I, for one, want to see what’s happened with that potion.” 

I dropped the squat potion bottle in his hand. Sinderion’s fingers immediately closed about the bottle’s neck, dark opaque glass contrasting with the gold of his skin, so pale it was nearer yellow than the usual colour for his race. The old mer didn’t get out of his lab much, preferring the life of an eccentric recluse devoted to his work. His work clothes were generally of a deep brown colour, so dark as to seem nearly black; the better to hide stains from spilled reagents. His thick head of hair, a silvery grey common in Altmer of advanced age, only served to reinforce the impression he gave off, that of a great pale insect flitting here and there in his laboratory. 

So he seemed now as he uncorked the bottle, nose wrinkling as he sniffed at the contents. What followed was a round of testing samples with yet more potions, running through various retorts, calcinators and distillation through alembics. I sat on a low stool, careful to stay out of his way and watched a master of the alchemical arts at work. 

The testing took longer than I’d expected him to, and by the end of it, instead of the usual glow of satisfaction he had after solving a new alchemical puzzle, his face was fixed in a frown so terrifying, I was hesitant to ask what he’d found. “Well?” I tried for an encouraging smile, but it died in the face of Sinderion’s glare. Dammit, he wasn’t even glaring at _me_ , so why did I have a shiver running down my spine?

“In Morrowind, you said?” He asked, face and voice grim as I had never seen him be. 

“Y-yes? Is there something wrong?” Somehow I didn’t think I was going to like the answers.

“Can you remember the taste of the potion in Morrowind and how it compared to when you drank it here?”

“Not very pell — _well_ — dammit to Oblivion!” Sinderion tutted and gestured for me to get on with it, “I think… in Morrowind there was a sweet f-fruity? Then bitter, kind of floral aftertaste. Here it just tasted horribly bitter and sour.” I grimaced at the remembered flavour. 

“And at no time did you mix potent alcoholic beverages with this potion, or allow it to come into contact with alcohol? I recall that I instructed you to specifically avoid doing so.” Sinderion’s glance was penetrating.

“No. I d-don’t drink. Not since —” I left that hanging. He nodded.

“Who else knew what was in this bottle?”

“My sister — and anyone else in Balmora who could have eyed me drinking from it, or the other bottles you m-made — I needed it f-ffrequently there. Sinderion, _what_ are you saying?”

He sighed. “This potion has been contaminated. Of _that_ I am in no doubt, and what was introduced involved quite a stunning amount of alcohol — your description of the sourness in the contaminated potion clinches that point.” He regarded me worriedly. “I hesitate to say the potion was deliberately tampered with, but… “

I heard what he didn’t say. The potion couldn’t be mixed with any other reagents, since that would cause it to degrade rapidly into a poison, particularly if alcohol was introduced. The potion bottle itself was sealed to prevent cross contamination from the other reagents and mixes I regularly carried with me, as Sinderion well knew; so really, the only way anything could’ve gotten in was by someone actually intervening to taint the brew.

I suppressed the urge to throw up. If I hadn’t reduced my usual dose that night, three weeks ago… But who?

“Look to your enemies, Arliene. And consider: who could’ve gotten access to your personal items?” Sinderion shook his head. “I’ll make a new batch for you now; the potion was working successfully before, yes?”

“Yes… yes… Oh, and I have m-more samples for you.” I retrieved the harvested nirnroot samples and proffered them to Sinderion, whose usual happiness at having more samples to dissect seemed rather muted as well. 

All I could think of now, was _who_? 

Who would want me dead? More importantly, _who_ would’ve known to poison the one potion I regularly drank? 

  


* * *

  


The question of my almost-murder haunted me sleeping and waking, through the thirteen days or so it took for me to reach Bruma. The city, built on multiple terraces by the ancient Nords who had founded the city was carved from the living rock of the mountains. It nestled in the lower slopes of the Jerall Mountains, the tall peaks of which hung over the city, like the brooding wings of some vast unimaginable bird — whether to protect, or to stalk, my fancy did not answer. 

There were the gates, tall arches in thick stone walls dimly seen in the hour before first light, barred with stout iron and oak and grim, hard-nosed guardsmen in their yellow cuirasses, with the eagle emblem of Bruma blazoned in stark black. Here outside the walls, and hard by the gates to the city were the stables, where I dismounted and shouldered my saddlebags and pack, commending Crystal to the care of Petrine, the local ostler and her assistant Humilis. The poor horse was quite worn by now, and deserved a good long rest. 

Walking through the gates, I felt the stares of the guards following me as I passed through, and unerving experience. Usually the gate guards were a fairly affable lot, but this day they were tense, on edge. The mood of the citizenry was scarcely any better, with rumours flying of a visit by the Crown Prince having turned sour somehow; a duel (illegal) with a local noble over a woman, a scandalous dalliance with a man, or a quarrel over some matter which had run to bloodshed touching the imperial heir. 

I kept my head down, and headed to where I expected Clesyne to be, if she had arrived before I did — quite likely considering the reckless pace she seemed to have been using her horse at: _Olav’s Tap and Tack_. As its name suggested, it had once been a tack shop, but the eponymous innkeeper had bought over the failing business, and converted it into an inn. It was a cosy place near the East Gate I’d entered the city by. The inn had two storeys under its straw thatched roof, with the common dining room on the ground floor and guest rooms above, as was usual. 

After my 13 day journey, I was ready to fall into a bed and not get up for just as long. Or maybe a month, a month sounded good. Dammit, Sal owed me — well, us, including Clesyne — another damn vacation. By my tally we’d spent a month or so chasing this man and those bears all over Cyrodiil with no results to show for it. It was enough to drive anyone to frustration or madness. 

I shivered as the warm air of the inn’s interior reminded my body just how cold it was at the moment — the Jeralls were cold throughout the year, but in autumn and winter that cold took on a particular edge of misery. I had to repeat myself to Olav several times, until he could finally make out what I was saying, drunk on tiredness and my teeth chattering with cold. 

“Your twin? She did arrive before you, two nights ago. She left me a message for you, yes.” He produced a note and read: “ _Dearest sister, I’ve managed to trace where Frothi might be: it’s said he frequents the Jerall View Inn for dinner and dice games every day. I would be here to greet you, but something else urgent has occurred, and I have to go. I will try to return soon, but I have faith that you’ll be able to achieve our goals here, and only regret you must do it on your own. Go on without me, should you manage to retrieve the objectives before I return to Bruma: Sal grows increasingly impatient by the day. Love, Clesyne._ ”

I clenched my fists, wishing my sister was in front of me so I could pound some sense into her. What happened to not working alone? What happened to not taking on outside commissions while working for our main boss? What had happened to her good sense overall? 

Breathe in, out, still the gathering power, soothe the niggling pain of it. Breathe deeply, in, out, again. When I was certain I was calm enough to speak without adding unnecessary oaths, I called for a mug of small beer, and bread with cheese and meat, then rested my head on my hands, face down, napping while awaiting my food and drink. Time to eat; catch up on my sleep and then in the evening, find this man who’d led me and my twin across half of Cyrodiil — and the damn bears.

  


* * *

  


Clesyne, at least, hadn’t been wrong in her information. I found Frothi lounging in a seat at the Jerall View Inn, watching two other men sitting near him, who were presently playing at dice. 

His companions were loud, inviting the cold stares of the other patrons and the innkeeper himself; but Frothi himself was silent, his face under its thick mop of dun, muddy coloured hair a smiling mask that gave away very little.

“So Salconius sent you to find me,” Frothi said, his voice a quiet bass, gentle, soothing, rather at odds with his rough appearance. 

I nodded. “Sal s-said you and he had a teal — _deal_ , sorry; a favour you owed him. Two dd-dancing snow bears.”

Frothi tented his fingers. “Ah, that might be a problem. You see, there wasn’t really ever a deal between your boss and me. I only agreed with him because he was drunk and I was drunk, and he’d cheated _me_ at dice, the milk drinking bastard. I had to win my stake back. Of course I told him he could have the bears!”

Zenithar bless. If I had a gold coin for each and every time I’d heard this kind of excuse, I’d have more gold than the blessed Emperor himself. “He said he maid — _paid_ you gold.”

“Bah, of course he did. My winnings, that was!” He pinned me with an earnest frown. “Now, you see, those bears are my family’s livelihood. My brothers,” he jerked a thumb towards the two men now bickering over whether the one had called a six before the dice cup had been removed, “wouldn’t be happy if we were to lose them, to say the least.”

“Is that a threat?” I kept my voice even, though I marked the exits, windows, the position of anything breakable…

“Oh no. I’m just saying that I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time finding us, but really, I can’t let you have the bears. Salconius wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to handle them or what to do with them anyway.” Frothi’s smile was faintly derisive. “Tell Salconius he’ll have to do better than sending a woman to ask me for things I don’t owe him.”

The condescension did it. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and proper rest as well as growing worry over various things, but the faintly patronizing nuance I’d picked up from Frothi drove me absolutely wild. I controlled my facial expression however, with those earliest lessons from my family uppermost in my mind, and said, “You talk Sal cheated you, all right; but I can’t go back to him with nothing either.” I paused to let him take that in, and then continued, “I’ll play you for the p- _bears_ and everything else to go with them. Your brothers and the innkeep there can —” I forced my unruly tongue andtruant vocabulary to cooperate — “witness our game and say there was no foul play.” Frothi was hesitant. “C’mon. Are you a true son of Skyrim, or just a m-milk drinker? Too afraid to face a woman even in a game?”

Frothi flushed, then turned pale, and finally his expression smoothed over. He looked at me speculatively. “You’ll lose,” he warned me. 

I bared my teeth at him in a grin. “We’ll see.”

His smile was sharp, like a school of slaughterfish that had just smelled blood in the water. “I’ll take great pleasure in winning everything you own, lass, if — no, _when_ you lose. Down to the shift under your clothes.”

“Talk, talk, talk. Are we p-playing some t-time this era?” 

Frothi stood up and called his brothers over, while I went to explain to the innkeeper what we needed him for. Hafid Hollowleg readily agreed, but only if we had an extra two witnesses. As luck would have it, the Primate of the Great Chapel of Talos, Arentus Falvius himself was present, and he agreed to stand witness to our game. The local smith Fjotreid, having come for dinner and a pint, also agreed, his broad face evincing interest. 

I had my witnesses, two of whom commanded great respect locally. Thus far, things favoured me, should it come to a dispute.

The tables in the dining room were cleared away, the firelight flickering and throwing weird shadows. A single table was left at the center, two chairs set at opposing ends. People crowded around the edges, jostling for a better view. From the whispers going around the room, Frothi had built a reputation for himself in the weeks he’d been here as a gambler who possibly employed less than honest tactics in winning, which was hardly news to me. I’d had some time in the afternoon today to scout out news on him after all.

Frothi himself had a bit of a swagger in his walk as he came over and sat down holding out a hand. “Lads, where’re me dice?” I ignored the groans coming from various corners of the room, and held up a hand. 

“Stop. I think t-that t-to be fair, neither side should supply the dice, or even touch them in play.” I smiled sweetly at a reddening Frothi, while a rather blank-faced Hafid set a cup and two dice down on the table. 

“Rules?” Fjotreid asked. There was a grin in the quirk of his upper lip. 

Frothi’s glower had scarcely let up, and grew blacker as he looked around the room. “Cho-han, standard rules. Best of three rounds.”

“Let you both announce the stakes of the contest, and be seen here by all to agree to abide by them,” the Primate of Talos intoned sternly. 

Frothi bit out, “I pledge the pair of dancing bears owned by my family, together with all the tack and gear related thereto, and agree to give them up to the winner of this bet.”

“Excellent.” I was fairly sure my own grin was predatory. “I b-bet the s-sum in my coin p-purse, 60 silver coins, and my m-mare, currently stabled at the _Wildeye Stables_ , and agree to give them up to the winner of this bet.”

And that was that. The room fell into a hush as Hafid shook the dice-cup once, twice, three times, and then up-ended the cup onto the table. “Call,” Hafid announced.

“Even,” Frothi said. His face had smoothed back into its usual inscrutable mask. He seemed cool, remote, untouchable, supremely confident. The sweat beading at his hairline however told a different story.

“Odd,” I said. Hafid removed the cup, and Fjotreid, Arentus Falvius and Frothi’s two brothers came forward to see. I coughed as Hafid announced the sum of the dice: Seven. Round one to me.

A second time Hafid shook the dice-cup and upended it. “Odd,” Frothi announced to the room, his voice seeming to dare the dice to show anything other than what he willed it to be. I shrugged, and followed it with “Even.” The cover was removed, the sum announced: nine. 

The final round was about to commence. I stared steadily into Frothi’s eyes, waiting for him to look away. He finally did. I let a small smile touch my lips. Hafid shook the dice, and upended them again. This time I called out my bet before Frothi did: “Even, a fair — sorry, a _pair_ of sixes.” Frothi was visibly unnerved as he made his own bet: odd, with a sum of seven.

The room was absolutely silent — a feat in itself considering that the place was crowded at the edges with people watching. All held their breath as Hafid opened the dice cup up to reveal — 

“YOU CHEATED! YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU _CHEATED_!” Frothi reached across the table for my neck; I slid away and out of his reach, leaping up from my chair, fists held up to face his brothers who were rumbling their displeasure in gutter insults. All three were held back by other men from the crowd, with Frothi himself eventually needing to be sat on, quite literally. The rest of the room had dissolved into a mass of shouting, both cheers and groans as money changed hands. 

Nords!

I shook hands with Fjotreid, and His Holiness. “Thank you, g-good sirs. I doubt it would’ve g-go so well without you t-two.”

“No, thank _you_. That little milk-drinking cheat needed a lesson taught,” Fjotreid said, with some heat — a good friend of his had fallen victim to Frothi’s dice recently, and he, of the people I’d met during the afternoon, had been keenest to avenge his friend’s honour. “How did you make that last guess? That was splendid.”

“T-trade secret,” I grinned. “It’s all in h-how you ear to things though. Now, do you know where are the bears?”

  


* * *

  


I had my misgivings about the whole thing from the start, but now that reality had set in, I found myself on the verge of panicking.

So here were these two magnificent brutes, reared up on their hind legs before me, with lazy, indolent looks on their bestial faces that were almost… _adorable_ , in a fanged, muscley, furry way. I wasn’t ready to be lulled by their seeming docility, though. Bears of any kind, but the snow bears of the frozen North especially, were _dangerous_. The enchanted chains and collars keeping them in check seemed so frail against their combined 1800-something pounds of pure muscle and bone. One yawned, showing off a lovely ivory coloured set of teeth. The long canines that bear displayed had me transfixed for a moment. Mara, sweet Mother of Mercy, they were huge!

What in the hell was I going to do with them on my own now? The one thing I’d never expected to have to do all this while, was haul these two back to the Imperial City on my own! 

Damn it all, Clesyne. _Damn you_ , sister mine. What in Oblivion was she _thinking_? Where was she?

Oh well. Cursing makes no bones, as aunt Siona would have said, accompanying that reminder with a hard thwack to the ear closest to her reach — I almost rubbed my ear at the remembered sting. Time to figure out my next move. Thinking back to the sullen glowers Frothi and his brothers had worn, Bruma wasn’t safe to stay in much longer. I’d definitely have a very nervous trip home. Again, my wonderful, conveniently missing older sib would’ve been a welcome addition — but no use wishing for her to appear.

I sighed, and left the bears where they were for the time being. I had transport and — dear gods, bears ate a lot, didn’t they? — feed for my furry cargo to arrange. 

I spoke briefly with Petrine, arranging for there to be a wagon and horses ready to go within the hour — I’d previously warned her that afternoon that I’d likely need a wagon and horse team in a hurry, and at odd hours. I then rushed to the local markets, where the fishmonger I’d dealt with earlier had a large quantity of the day’s catch with him, awaiting my call for it; I bid him deliver the fish to the stables. After that I ran around to _Novarroma_ , Bruma’s general goods store, where Suurootan and Karinnarre were waiting for me with several bags of grain.

By the time I got back to the stables, Petrine and her workaholic employee had come through and loaded the wagon, which now awaited me. They’d provided a stout conveyance, covered with waterproofed cloth; it would also haul the massive quantity of meat and fish needed to feed two hungry bears, kept in a contrivance of frost magics, maintained with frost salts to keep it from spoiling in the heat. There would also be beans, and grain for myself and the horse team — more oats. I was geting mightily sick of oats by now. Gods damned travel food. 

A week back to the Imperial City — seven days. I felt the back of my neck, where my old scars were prickle. That twitch in my intuition never presaged anything good. I thanked Petrine for her help, paid for her services with 4 silver pieces and moved out, the bears making soft grunts in their covered cage behind me.

  


* * *

  


The seven days back to the Imperial City had been surprisingly trouble free; I suspected that the scent of bear kept away the wildlife that had made travel miserable on my way to Bruma. Despite my fears and the persistent sensation of being watched, no troubles of a human sort had materialised either. 

I wasn’t ready to let down my guard yet though. That prickling sensation of trouble in the offing was only getting worse, not better.

I drove my wagon through the crowded throughfares of the City’s waterfront district. My destination was the warehouse where Sal and the troupe lived when we weren’t on the road to our next showing. This was a bad area, lots of toughs looking for easy pickings. I made sure my sword was prominently displayed to warn them off. 

I was within sight of the warehouse, when I spotted a large figure, cloaked and hooded, standing in the middle of the road. Though I instinctively slowed down to avoid hitting whoever it was, alarms rang in my mind: it was noon and blazing hot; no one sane would choose to walk around in that many layers! 

Hands reached up to pull me from my seat; I resisted, but the tugging and pulling on the reins meanwhile confused the horses, and the wagon swerved about. The bears growled as their cage was jostled about. I fought the wagon wheels and my assailants for control, and lost, tumbling to the ground. 

Shouts and screams rang out as the wagon toppled over, the ponies falling with it. The heavy cage fell, and even _more_ screams rang out, as the bears let out a massive roar. I saw nothing of it though, as I lay, dazed and blinking on the ground, aching fiercely in the places I’d hit trying to break my fall. 

I didn’t have much time to ponder just how many areas were crying for attention though; the hooded person was now advancing on me with a wicked looking knife, and I got myself off the floor in time to avoid their fist. The hood came off, then the cloak, revealing the face of one of Frothi’s siblings.

“By Stendarr, you three are fucking sore losers!” I yelled, very much wishing to yet not daring to look behind, where more roars and terrified screams along with the sound of much breakage was happening. 

The idiot had nothing better to retort with except “Die bitch!” and start swinging with his knife. I parried the first few strokes, then ran him through the chest. Before he even realised he was dead meat, I pulled my blade and was ready to face the second, who was screaming and frothing at the mouth as he charged me. Oh bother, a berserker. 

It was at this point that the Imperial Watch intervened. The berserker charged them all, and several watchmen were tossed aside, like so many ragdolls, before they got enough men on him to subdue the man. Considering that the Watch was drawn from serving and past Legionnaires, that was rather impressive. I was breathing hard, standing empty handed, hands out to the sides as ordered under the watchful eye of a guard — _I_ wanted no trouble with the Watch, thank you. 

Risking a quick peep behind, I suppressed a groan: the bears in their terror and anger had wrought a trail of utter destruction through the place, and while they had calmed down, the two were now tearing apart a stall I recognised as the honey seller’s at the moment. 

I was trying very hard not to think of what the damages were going to cost, when a familiar face showed up. “Itius! Itius Hayn!”

“Aswyth! Please tell me you’re not involved — you _were_. Dammit, can’t you stay out of trouble?”

“This was h-hardly _my_ f-fault, Captain. I was attacked!” 

He shook his head despairingly. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come along, and whoever else the rest of my men managed to arrest too.” He patted me on the shoulder. “At least if there’s witnesses to the whole thing, you’ll be out soon, eh?”

What else was there to say, or do, except go with a Watchman when he arrests you?

  


* * *

  


“But b-boss!”

“No buts! First Morrowind, now this! You nearly blew our entire operation wide open this afternoon!”

“But —”

“Enough! You were too slow as well; I expected you to have returned with the bears _two weeks_ ago. Where’s your sister gone? Admit it, your sister’s done gone and breached our _contract_ and taken on outside work, hasn’t she?” Sal was pacing outside my temporary cell, working up a fine head of steam. “I had her notified of Frothi’s movements, damn it. Don’t give me excuses about how you couldn’t find him, because _I’d already found him for you_. And this is what you give me.”

I bowed my head. Sal had told Clesyne where to find Frothi? How was I to know? Clesyne had given me no sign at all! I didn’t know what to think: the whole world seemed upside down.

“I’ll pay your fines, I’ll even pay for the property damage, because this fiasco wasn’t all your fault. However there’s that breach of contract, that and your performance lately simply isn’t what I expected of you.” He gave me a hard look. “I’m getting you out of jail, but that’s it. After this? You’re damn well fired, don’t darken my door ever again.”

Sal huffed, and walked away. That was the last I ever saw of him.


	8. Chapter 8

I trudged back into the _Merchants’ Inn_ , sore, cold and feeling more defeated than I liked. The bears were now likely safely rounded up and penned in their warehouse, warm, snug and probably well fed by now, the lucky, lucky beasts, and much joy may Sal’s client have of them! 

I didn’t understand what Clesyne was trying to do, really. I ran over the gist of her message to me again, and the recollection just made me feel more and more irritated. “ _Sorry, won’t make it to you in time, something else’s come up — take the bears on to the City first without me. Love, Clesyne._ ” What? What in the hell else was this important she couldn’t come and help me wrangle the damn beasts home? Do her damned job?

I shrugged off Velus’s anxious greeting with a grunt — no doubt he was wondering where Clesyne was. I would have absolutely loved to know the answer to that too, but my sister was being unusually mysterious as to her whereabouts. Three weeks now she’d been ahead of me at every turn, never where she was supposed to be, and despite my sending off messages to our usual drops, asking her what in the name of Aetherius and the Divines she thought she was doing, not a word in response. 

She’d not done that in years. Not since I’d been injured and she came to my bedside six months after the fact, when I was already awake. I was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t lost in the wilds somewhere, injured or worse. Spriggans. More bears of the local variety. Mountain cats. I cut that train of thought off immediately as I waved for a mug of beer. Probably not the most prudent thing on an empty stomach, but I couldn’t give a scamp’s arse about prudent behaviour at the moment. 

I finished the beer, and signalled for another, ignoring Velus’ disapproval that manifested itself in dark looks at my filled tankard, gentle coughs and a vehement polishing of the good pewter. I was still feeling the need to get rip-roaring drunk, but wondered if I shouldn’t get a room to be drunk in — better than going out to find a fight in any case. I had no desire to see the inside of the drunk tank Itius loved threatening people with, not tonight or any other time. 

I spared a wish for my previously high levels of alcohol tolerance, then decided that it was as well I was a lightweight nowadays, since the goal here was to get drunk as fast as I could manage. Bugger what Oleta said previously about living a sober life and my old injuries. My sister had as good as run out on me, my boss had just fired me — us, I suppose, but Clesyne wasn’t exactly here to be fired, was she? — all I needed now was to be arrested for real, instead of the fracas of the afternoon. Or see someone killed in front of me or something.

I was somewhere on my third beer of the evening, feeling more and more morose, and considering whether or not to try the brandy Sal (Zenithar empty his pockets and send him the clap!) favoured so much when he went carousing. A disturbance outside the door drew my attention from contemplating the beautiful amber gleam of the liquid in my tankard however. 

The door slammed open and the source of the disturbance made its way in. Audens Avidius was in the lead of a passel of Watchmen — and were those _Palace Guard_? The smarmy son of a netch had a wide smirk on his face that I would dearly love to punch off it. 

Oh fucking Tiber Septim dancing on the Numidium. The bastard was heading _my_ way. This could not be any good. I came alert instantly, or as alert as I could considering the amount of beer I’d had, cursing the fact that I’d been drinking this heavily. The one evening I needed my wits around me… 

Avidius bustled over to my table, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “Sirs, this is the woman, Clesyne Aswyth.” _What_? 

“But I’m not Clesyne…” I started to say. Avidius was gloating openly and by Julianos would he just _stop_ it. _Sonofabitch_. He damn well _knew_ who I was. What in Oblivion was he playing at, lying to a superior officer like this? Velus had stopped his polishing, and was now looking at me, helpless, openly worried. I looked back at him briefly, hoping he would shut up and not interfere. Whatever it was, if Avidius thought he was going to be able to get away with it… best if Velus stayed well out of it. I might have brought trouble to him now just by being here. 

I’d been focused on Avidius so much, I jumped a bit when I found myself being addressed by the stern faced Guard Captain. “Are you Clesyne Aswyth, of Daggerfall?” 

Clesyne? What did Clesyne have to do with anything? She hadn’t been anywhere near this afternoon’s fracas anyway. “No! I’m not Clesyne. Why —” 

Avidius chose to open his mouth again at this point: “She’s lying, Captain, of course she would, she’s a liar through and —” I cut him off with a swing to the jaw. It was wild, sloppy and glanced off the side of his jaw, instead of under it like I’d meant to, but Divines, that felt amazingly good, and he deserved more punches, as many as I could dish out. 

_“You damned m-mangy diseased s’wit! Stendarr_ take _you for your lies, fetcher!”_ I jumped onto him, fully intending to throttle the life out of him. The table behind him tipped and crashed from the impact, mixed with the screaming of the patrons and Velus’s shouts. I’d had enough of Audens Avidius, his smirks, his lies, his insinuations, his corruption, his robbing honest merchants and people in the markets, his leering smarminess that left me feeling unclean every time I encountered the sad sack of shit —

Strong arms dragged me back, separating the both of us. I yelled even as I twisted free and managed to get close enough to a wheezing Avidius, before I was pulled back again. I did manage to leave my mark on his face however, raking him hard across the face. The deep bloody scratches on his left cheek and nose was absolutely gratifying. Take that you —

The icy rush of a Paralysis spell snapped me out of my bloodlust in short order. Someone must have caught me since I didn’t hit the floor directly, but was lowered to the ground. My eyes were frozen open, so I was aware of the Guard Captain leaning over me as he beckoned to someone else. “Is this the woman who was spotted during the incident?”

“This woman does look to be her, but there was also report of an identical twin sister…” I began racking my brains, trying to figure out whose attention Clesyne or I might have drawn.

“No matter. She did just assault a member of the City Watch, even if she is uninvolved in the other — matter. Bring her in.” The captain’s words made me queasy. The matter of the bears from the afternoon was settled. What other matter could he be referring to? 

There was no leisure to think about it, however, since I was then lifted upright and off the ground. A Calm spell sent me into a lassitude of thought, even as my arms were forced behind me and bound with enchanted shackles that silenced my magicka, muffled any noise I made and drained my energy, so that moving on my own was nearly impossible. I attempted to twitch a finger, and succeeded, barely. The paralysis was obviously beginning to wear off. I then felt the wash of a Command Humanoid spell run over my skin, and my feet began moving without my will. 

I managed to turn my head enough to stare at Avidius as I was marched out of the door. He paled a little as I glared at him, then grinned at me, triumphant. The sight made me seethe and long again for his throat under my hands. He swallowed and winced a little — the marks I gave him must have smarted, ha! — and that had to be enough to content me for now.

I was marched onto one of the waiting carts, forced into a seated position, and we were off, jouncing on the cobbles and headed towards the Prison District in silence. The men around me spoke not a word and I of course, was unable to do so. I prayed then to Stendarr, our Lord of Mercy and Justice, begging Him to hear me. Let Avidius’s wrongdoings be found out, and if Stendarr were so kind, that I should be the one to help bring him to true justice at last, in the name of all his swindled and wrongly accused victims through the years. 

The cart stopped. I looked around, then lifted my eyes to the tall tower of the Bastion, headquarters of the Imperial Legion. The structure was forbidding, even more so now that a thick fog had set in, and all that was visible of the buildings surrounding it were lit windows in the dark murk. The wind blew in our faces, bringing the smell of the nearby sewers that emptied into the Rumare, as well as that of rotting vegetation. At that moment, Masser broke through the fog and clouds to shine on the tower, rendering it black, brooding against a background of silver. This was my last sight of freedom, as a pair of burly Guardsmen swiftly helped me off the cart, none too gently, and through the doors of the tower in front of us, which was dimly lit at this hour. 

I was relieved of my belongings, then marched behind an enclosure by a female guard and told to strip. I was then searched most thoroughly in every cavity, and given a set of rough sackcloth clothes that were no better than rags to put on before my hands were again bound in those enchanted shackles.

The guards were turning me in the direction of what I knew to be the cells on the East side, where common criminals, drunk and disorderly persons and those awaiting trials were held, when another guard came and ordered them to stop. A flurry of murmured orders later and I was turned about-face — to the cells to the West. 

I swallowed and stumbled along. The atmosphere was oppressive and growing more so, even as the path began sloping downwards and the stone walls began to look rougher hewn, the air damper, more dank. Itius had once told me those cells were high security, reserved for prisoners awaiting execution, or those deemed a threat to the Empire, too dangerous or otherwise known for deeds of particular infamy, to be held with the common inmates or to be paroled. Solitary confinement was their lot, no visitors allowed, no rights granted, no fixed detention period save for those awaiting execution. 

This was where people went when they were forgotten. A chill struck me to the heart. They thought I was Clesyne, or seemed to — damn Avidius! 

No reason was given at my arrest save that of assaulting a Watch Captain; surely that offense hardly warranted a stay in these cells? No reason, that is — except those officers had been interested in Clesyne, had asked if I were my sister. This meant that _Clesyne_ was the one the Empire’s finest were looking for. The one who was supposed to be here. In maximum security. No visitors, no rights, detention at the pleasure of his Imperial Majesty. 

I thought back to how Clesyne had seemed to be avoiding me for the past two weeks or so. How in the places where I had almost managed to catch up to her, the cities had been in a quiet uproar. It was all very hush-hush, but enough rumours had spread that the populace knew something major had happened. And now it seemed Clesyne, my sister had somehow been entangled in the mess that had Palace agents investigating. By the Nine, what had she gotten us into?

I rolled over on the hard straw pallet that served as a bed, my back to the wall as I looked up at the window. The moonlight from earlier was obscured and the sky dark outside. Who knew what time it was now? I shut my eyes and tried for some sleep, but not before saying a short prayer for my sister’s safety and freedom, wherever she might be.

In the dark, the only company I had was the sound of water. Sleep was long in coming.

  


* * *

  


I nearly lost track of just how long I was in that cell. The jailor was prompt enough with food and drink — simple bread and water — but remained dumb, even when I demanded to know when I was to be arraigned, or if I were to have a trial. What was I being held for? What crimes had I committed that justified my being here? To each and every query, the jailor returned nothing but a solemn silence. Had my cell not had a window, I would not have known whether it were day or night. It was still mostly dark in the cell however, and the persistent dampness made for chilly nights, since Last Seed was also the month which heralded the end of summer, and we were nearly to the start of Hearthfire. 

It was a relief when, about a week into my incarceration, four men, Imperials, and clad in the uniforms of the Watch showed at the door to my cell and called for me to stand back. I did as I was told; asking if I was to be freed. This question was met with derision. “Free? You? Oh that’s a joke!”

“Where are you t-taking me then?” I stood still, refusing to move, even when they shoved me hard in the back. “Audens is our good friend. We owe a little favour to Audens — I see you remember him, eh bitch?” I snarled at the wretch, who I now guessed to be in Avidius’ pay. “Audens wants you moved to a different cell — the ones where the hanging ‘uns live. He’s made it sweet on us for ‘t, so’s we tend to like going along with him when he says things, you know?” 

I spat in his face. The blow I received rocked me backwards onto my pallet and bounced my head against the wall. Fortunately for me, this particular specimen of manhood was slow and telegraphed his moves long in advance. I was ready for him and managed to roll with his punch well enough I didn’t hit my head too hard against the wall, which was my chief concern. “Now that wasn’t very nice was it? Not polite eh?” Another blow to the other cheek, roll with the blow again, lessen the impact. “We heard what you did to Audens. That? That was for him. Teach you politeness. Remember that when you talk to your betters.” 

“I see none of them in this cell.” I muttered. A clip to the ear this time. I hoped that satisfied the brute’s liking for beating up on defenseless prisoners, or I’d have to seriously start worrying about more head injuries. “Shut up and come quietly, or you’ll get worse.” The men were less than kind in cuffing me for the transfer, though I must admit I was hardly cooperative. I was half dragged, half pushed to a new cell, the door shut in my face. I looked at the window. Still West, from what I could make out. This section was completely silent. Not even the constant drip of water, which I had grown to hate, could be heard. I screamed at the cowards to come back, to tell Avidius to let me out. 

What else could I do? I could not escape the prison on my own— I had no capability for spellcasting, and I felt the magicka draining and silencing potions I knew were added to the bread they fed us to be increasingly ironic in my case. I hadn’t a lockpick to try the door, and the prison was famously impossible to break out of, located as it was in the heart of the Imperial Legion. The earlier blows to my face were beginning to feel hot and throbbing. At least no one I knew would be seeing these bruises and going into a protective lather.

A darkly amused chuckle sounded from the cell opposite mine. I moved closer to the door to see who it was. A Dunmer was in there, and he was laughing. “What’s so funny?” I grated. 

“Well, well. Look what we have here! Pale skin, snotty expression.” I glared back at him. “You’re a Breton! The masters of magicka, right? Hmph. You’re nothing but a stuck-up harlot with cheap parlor tricks.” 

Never had I felt the loss of my magickal ability so keenly. “Shut the fuck up you p-pasty faced asshole!” He wheezed, as though what I just said were the most hilarious joke ever told on Nirn. 

“Go ahead, try your magicka in here. Let’s see you make those bars disappear. No? What’s the matter? Not so powerful now, are you Breton? You’re not leaving this prison ‘til they throw your body in the lake. Oh, that’s right. You’re going to die in here, Breton! You’re going to die!” He ended on a creepy laugh that did no favours for my state of mind. The truth was, I was terrified that all of what he said was true: I was going to die here, all because of a stupid corrupt Watch Captain and whatever in Peryite’s hells my sister had gotten involved in. All that would be needed was for the jailor to stop the supply of food and water — would it be death of thirst? Or starvation?

“Hey, you hear that? The guards are coming… for you! He he he he he he.” I strained my ears— he was right. I heard voices, shouts to lock the door and the clanking of armour as a door clanged to, somewhere above. 

An old man’s words came faintly to my hearing. “My sons… they’re dead, aren’t they? All of them?” A woman answered him, harder, stronger — like one used to command. “We don’t know that, Sire. The message only said they were attacked —” 

The group came into view of my cell: A white haired old man, an Imperial by his looks, tall, richly dressed in long robes, being hurried along by a group of men and a woman, clad in ornate, if still very much functional armour; clearly they were bodyguards of some sort, protecting the old man who was in the center of their formation. The old man paused for breath a short distance away, looking at the woman as he did so. “No. They’re dead. I know it. I have known ever since…” His voice trailed off. “Please, do not lie to me further, Captain.” The woman, a Captain, it seemed rather, ducked her head— abashed to have been caught in a lie by her superior? Someone — several someones were dead. Several very important someones, I was beginning to fear. 

“My job is to get you to safety.” The old man nodded, accepting her words and the implicit apology contained within them before he spoke again. “I know this place… the prison?” 

“Yes, your Majesty. Beneath the Legion Compound. We’re headed for a secret passage known only to the Blades. No one can follow us through here.”

If one of those creepy bronze-looking Dwemer automaton nasties so common in Morrowind had jumped right in my face at that moment, I could hardly have been more surprised. Your Majesty? _Your Majesty_? Did this mean that the old man was the Emperor? The bloody _Emperor_ of all Tamriel was right here? What? A secret passage? My heart was starting to thud. The group were advancing to stand before my cell. 

The Captain was obviously surprised to see me in the cell. “What’s this prisoner doing in here? This cell was supposed to be off-limits!” 

“The usual mixup with the Watch, I guess…” one of the men, who I saw was an Imperial, answered. She snorted in disgust. “Never mind.” Giving me a hard glare, she ordered the gate opened. “Stand back. We won’t hesitate to kill you if you get in our way.”

“Stand back, prisoner. Over by the window!” A second man, clearly another bodyguard for the elderly man — my brain was still gibbering over whether this indeed _might_ be the Emperor — was shouting more orders at me through the bars. I did as I was told. The door swung open and the group filed in. 

_“A secret passage…”_ Great Kynareth. That must mean… I watched in disbelief as the Captain advanced to the stone and brick pillar at the back of my cell and pushed at a certain brick. The entire wall swung away, revealing a passage, which she and the first man vanished into. As he passed, the Imperial side-eyed me and muttered loud enough for me to hear, “Looks like this is your lucky day. Stay out of our way.” The rest of their group followed, and I could hear orders to fan out. 

They’d left one of their number behind, obviously to bring up the rear. He also happened to have been the one shouting orders at me. I could now discern he was a Redguard, since he had advanced closer to stand between me and the elderly man in his charge. The man’s eyes were on my every move, his katana drawn in the event I tried anything against his principal. The Captain’s voice drifted back into hearing. “Better not close this one. There’s no way to open it from the other side.” Her head poked back through the opened passageway. “Please, sire, we must keep moving.” 

The old man — no, the _Emperor_ — Divines, I could still hardly believe this was happening, the _Emperor_ , in my cell! — was about to follow them into the passage, when he happened to glance in my direction, then looked again at me in the face, more intently. I saw him start visibly and pale a little, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “You… I’ve seen you. Let me see your face.” 

I came forward dumbly, into the light of the single torch, the man with the sword standing back a little to let me pass, but still tensed, watchful. He obviously didn’t like the idea of me getting any closer to the Emperor. “Sire, please, do not delay further — we must go, quickly!”

The Emperor shook his head as he moved closer; his hand already reaching forth to grip my jaw, gently turning my face first to one side, then the other. His fingers felt cold, the skin papery against mine. “I’ve seen you, twice over, in dreams and in the waking realm, both the bane and the saviour of my blood. But which are you?” I was startled. How could he know — ? My thoughts were interrupted as he froze, spotting the scar that ran along my neck and jaw, up into my hair.

He stared fixedly at it for several long moments, enough that his guard began to show obvious signs of restlessness. I wasn’t too keen on remaining under his scrutiny either. Then he shifted his gaze to look at me straight on, and oh, those blue eyes, in that moment! I scarcely breathed, transfixed. Rheumy with advanced age, the Emperor’s stare was sharp, penetrating, in a way that made me feel as though all my secrets were laid bare. As though there was something powerful lurking in that gaze, busy judging, searching me for something — what, I didn’t know. 

I heaved a breath as the Emperor closed his eyes. His expression grew remote for a moment, then he exhaled, a long breath out as his shoulders slumped visibly, before straightening again as he looked back at me. Gone was the preternatural air of perceptiveness and strength. He seemed frailer now, the deep wrinkles seaming his face deeper, obvious, just like any other man of his years, heightening the grief in his expression. “You truly are the one from my dreams. Then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength.”

“I — what? What’s going on? Sir — are you tt-truly the Emperor? Sire, I don’t understand!” I was beginning to wonder if this were truly the Emperor; and if that was so, if the Emperor wasn’t showing his age, so to speak. Dreams? Stars? What on earth? This was beginning to resemble a particularly vivid hallucination. Perhaps I was dreaming, had dreamt all this, and I would soon wake up, hopefully in a bed with my sister fussing over me — but no, I was certainly in jail, and stuck for the gods knew how much longer. Perhaps I’d caught a fever from the damp and was actually raving. In any case, I doubted my imagination was capable of creating such a scenario in detail, no matter my mental condition. I surreptitiously pinched myself. It hurt. 

This was really happening. Oh Divines.

The Emperor’s lips quirked up into a small smile. His expression was momentarily transformed, from weary and sorrowful, into an honest amusement that made him look much younger, almost impish. He’d probably noticed me pinching myself. I felt my face flush. His smile broadened, but then faded until he was solemn yet again. “I am indeed your Emperor, Uriel Septim. By the grace of the gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler, and have done so for 65 years.” He paused here. “As for what is happening: assassins have attacked my sons, who are now dead,” his deep voice audibly faltered on the word _dead_ , but regained its steadiness as he went on. “Logically the Council fears I am next. My Blades are now attempting to lead me out of the city by a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell.” 

“But, sire, why am I even here? I — ” I quieted as he held up a hand. 

“The _why_ is hardly a concern at this time. Perhaps the Gods placed you here, so that we may meet.” I frowned. Why all this mystery and talk about gods? Human fuckery had led me here, not divine intervention. “As for what you have done, or have not done,” his gaze was knowing, “it does not matter, not now.” I opened my mouth, wanting to speak, but snapped it shut as he continued. “You are a citizen of Tamriel, and you, too, shall serve her in your own way. That, and not the events that have led you here, is what you will be remembered for.”

I had to laugh briefly at that. Me, remembered? Apart from my sister and possibly my few friends, who would care? And what had I done that was worth remembering? “The gods know, I’ve had to m-make my own way nearly all my life. They’ve nn-never actually helped me before. Screwed my life over, more like. But by your leave, sire, what shall I do now?” 

“So do we all go on our own ways. But what path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the almighty Gods?” The Emperor’s gaze turned assessing, a hint of slyness in the set of his expression, that vanished into seriousness. I stiffened. What now? 

“Baurus!” The Redguard immediately stood to attention. “Sire!” 

“In our haste to depart, I neglected to send one last document to Chancellor Ocato.” He was looking at me as he spoke, his hand withdrawing a small sealed scroll from within his robes. “This is a grant of unconditional pardon, given in my own hand and seal, for any and all crimes committed, past and present, by a certain prisoner currently being detained at my pleasure.” I blinked. “The prisoner’s name is Arliene Aswyth, a Breton, if memory serves.” I felt my mouth drop open even as my knees decided now would be a good time to resemble melted cheese. “See that you deliver it yourself, to the Chancellor’s own hand, as soon as possible.” The bodyguard, Baurus looked as bewildered as I felt but acknowledged his orders with a salute. 

The Emperor had entered the open passage, so I did not see his face. His words were clear however. “I trust now you will find your own path. Take care… there will be blood and death before the end.”

  


* * *

  


I sat on the floor, staring at the dark maw of the secret passage, trying to process the last however many minutes. My head was still spinning from the rapid turn of events. That had been the Emperor and his guards fleeing the city. His sons — the heirs to the Ruby Throne, dead. The Breton in me was already considering the political ramifications somewhere in my hindbrain. The rest of me was still moving rather slowly. 

I ran through a quick set of the breathing exercises I’d learned, then considered what to do next. I was a free woman now, by imperial decree; however the proof of my freedom was hardly secure. The only way out I knew of now was the same way the Emperor and his group would take, whatever that was — presumably through the sewers and the underground caverns below the City. Rumour had it the caverns were filled with goblins and undead, and wild tales circulated of rats the size of a man. It would be a dangerous route, unarmed as I was. The Blades officer, Baurus, had warned me against attempting to follow the Emperor’s group before leaving. Still, it was the safest way I could think of to get out alive and preferably unhurt. 

The group had a lead by now, but I had nothing to slow me down, making me lighter and faster on my feet than men in heavy armour. The Emperor’s age and frailty was also going to work against their need for haste. His Imperial Majesty looked quite spry for a man who was soon to celebrate his 87th birthday, but he didn’t quite look to me like he was going to be able to move very fast at all, at least not as fast as his bodyguard were capable of at constant speed. Everything they did would need to take his physical condition into account. All in all, I thought I had a better than zero chance of catching up to them quickly, and hopefully follow them out unseen. 

I quickly descended into the passageway, noting that these seemed to be ruins of a sort; they must be of Ayleid origin, given the history of Imperial City and White-Gold Tower. The place was dark and hard to see in, the stone flooring uneven in sections, and what sources of light were available did little to dispel the deep gloom. Still it was ideal for someone attempting to tail a large group. Or ambush them. Slipping between shadows, I strained my ears for any sounds that the Emperor’s party might make. There! The distinctive clanking of armour was somewhere up ahead. I rounded a corner just in time to spot a figure disappearing down a corridor, bearing a wavering light. I rushed to keep the figure in sight, suddenly glad that the rags my feet were wrapped in made nary a sound on the stones. 

Shouts came from a little ways ahead, followed by the clash of steel on steel and screams; I froze, looking for cover, cursing when the likelier spots I found were closer to the fight than I would wish. No help for it. Sneaking closer and hiding behind a convenient pillar at the edge of the area, I saw the Emperor surrounded by a ring of defenders, while the rest of the Emperor’s guard clashed with strange men in red robes and bound armour — magically conjured protection from the planes of Oblivion. The shapes of the horrid spiked armour made my skin crawl, for some reason.

One such man came past my hiding spot; I tripped him up with a foot, clamping a hand over his mouth before he could yell, then struggled with him for control of his weapon. He fought hard, and fuck, that elbow to the ribs hurt! I managed to get a good grip around his neck and squeeze at the right spot to render him unconscious; strangling him with his own hood was fairly easy after. His bound weapon and armour dissipated on his death; I searched the corpse for anything of use, and found a couple bottles of weak healing and magicka restorative potions. 

Stuffing the bottles of healing potion in the waistband of my pants, I moved closer to the fight, which was mostly over by now. The Emperor’s guards had triumphed, but their ranks were reduced. I watched them regroup, some splitting off again to fan through the chamber, presumably making sure no more foes remained to surprise them. I recalled that 10 guards had entered my cell; 6 now were left, Baurus among them, I noticed. “Are you all right, Sire?” he asked, anxious. His armour was battered and spattered all over with blood. “We’re clear for now, but there’s no way to tell if there’s more of them coming.” 

“I am well,” the Emperor’s distinctive tones were muffled by the distance and acoustics of the chamber. “Captain Renault? Where is she?” Baurus shook his head. “She’s dead, sire. One of the red-robed murderers got a lucky hit in.” I couldn’t see much detail from the angle I was observing them from, but I could see the Emperor was absolutely still before replying. “She was a good woman and a loyal captain.” 

“I know, sire. She’ll be missed.” He made to urge the Emperor on, but the Emperor was staring into the distance, momentarily lost in thought.

“So many deaths already to protect me and mine — all useless, in the end.” The Emperor looked to Baurus. “Those who fell here — their bodies should not be left for the rats and goblins.” I sucked in a breath, biting back an exasperated groan. Dear gods, that was all fine, very noble, but they didn’t have the time for this! “Sire, with all due respect, we cannot afford to lose more time than we have. They — we all knew the risks. We’re here because we swore to protect you: our honour before yours, our blood before yours, our lives before yours, my lord. I know I speak for them, and the rest of us, when I say they will only have failed, their sacrifice useless _only_ if you fall here. I’m sorry sire, I truly am, but we have to keep moving.” 

“How did they find us? How could they be waiting for us here?” I recognised the voice of the first man from earlier, the one who had gone through first with the late Captain Renault. Baurus shrugged. “Don’t know. But it’s too late to go back now.” 

The first man spat on the floor. “Well they won’t be the first to underestimate the Blades.” Baurus’s reply carried more than a hint of irritation with it. “If it’s all the same to you sir? I’d rather not have any more of them show up.” The other had no response except to shrug the comment off, as he began to move further into the next room. “I’ll take point. Let’s move.” He looked to the Emperor. “Don’t worry sire. We’ll get you out of here.”

I had been engrossed by their conversation, so much so that when a hand clamped on my shoulder I couldn’t stop the shriek that left my mouth. I was seized and dragged before the rest of the group, and found myself standing again in the presence of the Emperor for the second time. 

“Sire, this prisoner has been following us. She’s probably working with the assassins! Permission to deal with her, my lord?” It was the first man, the Imperial Blade who spoke; and I did not like the sound of it one bit, not after all the death threats issued earlier in my jail cell. 

“No,” the Emperor’s voice was firm. “Stand down, Glenroy. She has done nothing wrong that We know of; and We will not execute prisoners out of hand, without proof of wrongdoing. Release her.” Glenroy was clearly unhappy, but obeyed the order. 

The rest of the Emperor’s party had already moved on. Baurus was again the rearguard, and repeated his earlier warning not to follow, before going himself through the gated door barring the way — and locking it. The _snick_ of the lock was loud in the dim silence. For the second time this night — or perhaps it was morning now? — I was again on my own. So much for following the Emperor’s company out of here.

I looked around. Apart from the door in my way blocking the only obvious egress, there were no exits. My eyes alighted on the body of one of the red-robed assassins. Somehow, these people had managed to access this place, secret though it was supposed to be; and well ahead of the Blades and the Emperor. Reason dictated that they might have a key, lockpicks, or at least some means of forcing the lock on the gate, if I were lucky. 

Searching the bodies was a gruesome task, though one I was not unfamiliar with from previous explorations in various caves around the continent. The red-robed murderers yielded disappointingly little in the way of usable items: one man had a purse that could be fastened to a belt, and which held a set of flints in it, and a few more bottles of healing potions joined the ones I already had from their other comrade, but they had no weapons or lockpicks, nor was there any indication of a key that could have opened the gate. However they’d gotten in, it was probably with the use of spells. 

I dragged the bodies of the assassins to a side, leaving them piled in a heap, then turned to consider the bodies of the fallen Blades. I was reluctant to search and strip their corpses, even reasoning that they had passed beyond mortal needs, and that they would not have begrudged aid to an innocent trapped in my position. I could make do with what I had on, and hope I might find some form of better protection later, I supposed. 

A weapon against beasts and other things that might be in the ruins, though, that was necessary. I noticed that Captain Renault, apart from her fine katana— one of Akaviri design, as far as I could tell — had a steel shortsword still hanging from her belt, along with a fresh torch. Muttering an apology to the dead woman, I unclasped her sword-belt and fastened it, with her katana, torch, and the steel shortsword around my own waist, securing the purse filled with the potions and flints I’d acquired to it as well. 

The Emperor’s words resurfaced in my memory. _Those who fell here should not be left for the rats and goblins._ He’d sounded so sad, so defeated it hurt. And he’d spared my life and pardoned me, though _why_ was one of many questions I’d love to ask him. The least I could do in gratitude was try and make sure that the bodies of his protectors received some dignity in death, hopefully unspoiled by whatever lurked down here, since it’d sounded very important to him. 

It took more effort and time than I’d liked, since I was weakened from the lack of proper food and adequate exercise thanks to my imprisonment, but I managed to move the bodies of Renault and her men back to a chamber we’d passed through earlier: I’d noticed it possessed a large flat stone plinth, which suited my purpose. I laid them out side-by-side on top of it, and said a short prayer to Arkay for their souls in whatever afterlife they might have gone to. 

I then trudged back to the chamber with the locked gate, hoping to find some clue that might lead to an exit. Crumbling stonework and high pitched chittering gave me an instant’s warning, before something came leaping at me out of the shadows. I shouted and struck out hard with Renault’s katana, the impact of the weapon on whatever it was jarring my arm all the way up to the shoulder. 

Backing away hurriedly, I just had time to realise this was the biggest rat I’d ever seen, almost the size of a small child. I caught an impression of oversized teeth like shears before it was leaping for my throat again. Stubborn beast! I rained a flurry of blows on it, but it was an agile opponent, much like its smaller cousins who cannily evaded market stallkeepers in the streets above. One solid strike to the neck severed its head from its body however.

I hurried over to the wall and examined the hole in the brick wall the rat’s egress had created. It was an awkward fit, but I should be able to make it through, and through the hole I saw there was a large room, mostly dark, but better than the dead end here, and there was always the hope of hidden caches to be found; many adventurers had been lost to the foul things that were said to live here. 

I squeezed through the gap and started exploring. I lit my torch now and looked around me. The cavern was a dark, gloomy place outside the small circle of light the lit torch gave off; every sense I owned was on high alert. I decided to follow the walls and explore this chamber as best as I could, before my torch burnt low. If only I could cast _Starlight_! Pacing to the right, I began my search of the room. 

My explorations soon yielded fruit. A chest in an alcove, its wood mostly brittle and splintered, yielded another torch as well as an iron dagger, which had rusted but was still mostly sound. I took the torch and dagger, and shoved them into my belt. 

Further into the room, I found the skeleton of some unfortunate with a longbow and some few arrows, all near yet another chest, this one locked. A glint of metal near the bones announced the presence of what looked to be a primitive lockpick, and soon I had the chest open. To my amazement, it contained a full set of leather armour! The work was crude and rough, but the leather, though in need of a good oiling had not mouldered or grown very brittle, and it looked as though it would do well enough for the trip out of this place. 

I lit the second torch, since the first was beginning to gutter, and strapped on the various bits and pieces of armour. By the end of it I was beginning to feel more myself than I had since the fateful night that had landed me in prison. I fitted an arrow to the string and tested the bow. The bowstring seemed to be in usable, if not optimal condition, and now that I had a ranged weapon, I could avoid a head-on confrontation with any enemies I might find later. 

Perhaps the gods were smiling on me for once. 

  


* * *

  


I couldn’t tell you how long I spent in the passages and caverns that came after; the whole thing seemed like a long, surreal nightmare of sorts. Stumbling along in the semi darkness of this subterranean world, relieved only by the light of the torches I found, which light also made me a conspicuous target in the dark, I hit dead-ends more than once, and was outright lost several times, not realising I had been walking in circles. Every wall looked to be more of the same as its neighbours, and the pillars scarcely looked different from one section to another. 

I encountered more rats, no less fierce and agile than the one from earlier, and undead in the form of zombies roamed the passages. Fortunately, their unique stink of rotting flesh and black magic meant you could all but literally smell them coming, and they were stupid opponents — dare I say, brainless? I was prepared for them; the light was scant in most areas, but enough to aim by, and the zombies fell easily enough to my arrows. 

Finally, the ruins of pre-human civilisation gave way to a series of natural caverns, which were vast, damp, slippery, filled with some interesting specimens of fungi, and more importantly, home to a whole nest of goblins. Not surprisingly, the goblins were less than pleased to have me intrude into their territory. They were foul things, their bloodcurdling shrieks and growls coming from the darkness ample fuel for weeks of nightmares. Believe me, when I say that having one snap in your face does not bear close remembering, and not least because the diet of goblins generally consists of rat meat. Their teeth were sharp and many in wide mouths, and stank like miniature versions of Peryite’s Pits. 

Still, they were hardly cunning opponents. Where I could, I sniped at them with bow and arrow. The late Renault’s katana did see much use in my hands however, and I was thankful for the quality of the blade, even if I did wish I weren’t here needing to use it. There were the occasional traps as well, falling logs and such; but these were easily disarmed and turned against the goblins who’d set them in the first place.

The hardest part of my journey through the caverns came when I reached their nest proper, in what appeared to be the last and largest of the cave system. I did a quick headcount. From what I could see, there were about five goblin berserks, and a goblin witch. The berserks were dispatched speedily enough, though I ran through all but three of my bottles of healing potion from earlier. 

The goblin witch however, was a tougher proposition to face down. She was _fast_ , and spells flew from her hands. The cavern was also well lit in many areas. Goddamn it, I needed somewhere to shoot from! 

Her first barrage of flames forced me to drop my bow and get the hell out of her range. Hiding behind a pillar, I started downing a bottle of healing potion, then dropped it in a hurry — the second barrage of fire crisped my shield and forced me to roll in order to douse the flames that had caught my arm. 

I ended up tumbling into the pit where the goblins were keeping a bunch of rats, landing on one as I hastily ducked the incoming blaze of lightning. The rat was offended by my using it as a cushion, and proceeded to demonstrate its justified ire with a squeal and a hard bite. One stinging set of marks in my armour later, I ran it through with a dagger, rolling away again from a third and fourth barrage of flames. Shit. This was far from going well. 

The witch was now advancing on me, and I could see a nasty sparking death forming between her fingers. 

Half-blinded by sweat and blood where my head had scraped the rocks on my way down, I did the only thing I could think of at that point: I grabbed the rat’s carcass and threw it into her face with all I had in me. 

Amazingly, it hit her dead on. I can only attribute it to divine intervention that it did so, because my aim with anything outside of spells and a bow was, and is, frankly best described as ‘abysmal’. Her momentary surprise and screech of rage was enough to let me jump up and perform the fastest running tackle of my life. A hard stab to the chest and a slice across the throat, and the witch was dead. 

After that fight, I slumped against the walls of the pit, panting. I uncorked the last bottle of healing potion I had — the other had sadly broken in my tumble. I had to steady my right hand, which was again annoyingly shakey, numb and weak, with my left, itself none too steady — proof I had overexerted myself. Even with the care I took, I still managed to slop a fair bit of the contents all over myself as I swigged the brew. Gods, I was tired and aching all over, and clearly out of condition. 

Getting up and out of that pit took a fair bit of willpower. All I wanted to do was to lie down and sleep, but doing so in a goblin nest, without being sure that all of them were dead, would’ve been suicidal to say the least. I kept moving, raiding the chests scattered in the cave for more supplies. Surely somewhere there had to be an exit to the surface. I amused my fancy as I walked with thoughts of hot food, a warm clean bed and proper care for my wounds, which were stinging rather fiercely despite the crude bandages and washing with the ale I had found in the cave — or perhaps the ale was the problem. I devoutly hoped that the goblins hadn’t added anything peculiar to the liquor.

I reached a tunnel that showed signs of having been chiselled, and not a natural formation; following it I soon reached a wall, with a hole in it and scrambled through, landing in a small chamber after a short drop. At this point I heard voices yet again, and my heart picked up hope immediately — it sounded rather like the Blades and the Emperor, which meant that they had indeed been slow, or I had gotten through the caverns and mazy ruins much faster than I thought. 

I hurried through the exit, which opened onto what looked to be a raised ledge. Sure enough, the group of Blades, with the Emperor still in their midst, entered through a doorway below and opposite of my position. It seemed they were arguing over the next course of action they should take. I noticed that they were down to four men, from the earlier six who’d survived the second onslaught. Obviously they’d been attacked again at some point. 

“We should find a defensible spot and protect the Emperor until help arrives.” Glenroy was saying. The nerviness in his voice was a far cry from the earlier confidence he’d displayed. 

“Where and what would you consider a defensible spot, sir? Any help’d have to find us first, and this place is a rabbit warren. What makes you think help will arrive before more of those bastards? We need to get the Emperor out of here. I say we keep moving.” I missed whatever response Glenroy might’ve made, because a red flash of movement caught my eye from the ledge opposite mine. 

Assassin! 

I snapped off a quick shot in his direction, but missed; the arrow clattered off the stone wall. “What was that?” The Emperor drew his own sword, even as the Blades went on high alert. I aimed, more carefully this time, at the red robed figure, now arrayed in the phantom-like armour that made my skin crawl and stomach turn. I took the shot, hit the bugger — and swore as he shrugged it off and continued on his murderous course. I barely noticed that the Blades were already engaged, one lone man shielding the Emperor with his own body as his comrades struggled valiantly against their assailants. Two to one odds, and the Blades’ weaponry didn’t seem to be making much headway against their opponents’ magical armour. 

I did what I could with my bow, not wanting to get too close. I soon had to jump down and take a more involved position however, as one of the Blades fell and didn’t get up again, and the fighting grew too close for arrows. I waded into the fringes of the battle and started hacking at the closest assassin. Little skill could I summon from my tired arms, but my opponent was curiously horrible at fighting — no stance or form to speak of, an amateur with the summoned blade he wielded. If it wasn’t for the strength of his conjured gear, he would’ve lost long ago. As it was, I got in a good strike and downed him permanently.

The Blades had by this time overcome the remaining assassins, and were now regrouping. I slipped back into a dark corner. “I think that was all of them,” Baurus was saying. “Let me take a look around.”

The Emperor had sheathed his sword, and was now looking around him, as though searching for something. The next words he spoke made my heart skip a few beats. “Have you seen the prisoner?” He sounded anxious.

Baurus was obviously puzzled as to why his lord would ask such a question. “Do you think she followed us, sire? How could she have? She’s probably lost by now, assuming she attempted to travel through the caves. I’d guess she backtracked to the prison.” 

The Emperor shook his head. “I know she did follow us. She is here, and listening to what we are saying.” I held my breath. _How_? How could he guess that? No, he wasn’t guessing, he was too certain. He _knew_. Somehow, he knew I was really here. 

As if he could read my thoughts, the Emperor turned towards my location. “Come closer. I’d prefer not to have to shout.” I hesitated. The Emperor, while having proved a very strange man, to say the least, didn’t seem likely to want to kill me; his guardians, however, were very much on edge, and had been dispensing death threats like sweetmeats earlier. 

“I need your help. Please, come with us. Your destiny is bound up with mine, and with the fate of Tamriel itself.” This was the Emperor, my Emperor, I suppose, asking for my help. The whole scenario was surreal. “Don’t be afraid. My guardians will not harm you.”

He sounded absolutely sincere in that last. How could I continue to refuse him? Reckoning that the Blades would follow their master’s orders, I stepped forwards. Glenroy predictably wasn’t happy to see me, and drew his blade as soon as I came into sight. “Dammit, it is her, it’s that prisoner again! Sire, _please_ , this isn’t safe; she might be one of the assassins!”

“No.” 

“But Sire, the law — ” 

“ _No_ , Glenroy.” I just stopped myself from gaping a little. The Emperor’s voice sounded firmer than I’d heard it all this while. “I know your fears, but I assure you, she is not one of them. On the contrary, she can help us. Let her come with us.” A low sigh. “She _must_ help us, or we are all lost.”

Glenroy stared at me, as did the other Blade; their faces filled with suspicion and curiosity. “As you wish, Sire.” There was no hint of relaxation in his posture as he glowered at me. 

Baurus chose to return from his sweep of the room at this moment. “It’s clear, sir,” he reported, even as he eyed me with more than a little shock. 

Glenroy acknowledged the report with a nod. “Sire, we have to go now.”

“Not yet. My old bones ache from all this rushing. Let me rest a moment longer.” My heart swelled with understanding; I was a mere 33 next to his venerable 87 years, but the long journey and fighting for my life through the caverns and ruins had left me worn and aching. The Emperor didn’t have to fight, of course, though I noted he was armed with a silver shortsword; still he could not be used to such extended exertion at all — how much worse it must be for him, and at his age! The Emperor was beckoning me towards where he sat on the edge of a raised section, however, and I went, wondering what he had to say this time.


	9. Chapter 9

I trundled over, feeling rather shaky as the reality I was going to be addressing His Majesty finally sank in. I was already standing in front of him before I could work up a real panic, however. The Emperor greeted me with a small smile. “I see you found your own path.” I couldn’t help myself; I snorted. Loudly. In front of his Imperial Majesty of Tamriel. “Yes, Sire, I did, and n-no thanks to your guards.” I winced as a particularly nasty wound decided to remind me of its existence. “They might have let me come along from the start, and spared me almost turning pat seed.” 

The Emperor blinked, frowning and looking rather puzzled. I waited for him to make the near universal request for me to repeat myself, and was surprised yet again. His face cleared of its confusion, as he seemingly understood what I was saying and laughed. 

I noted idly in the midst of my embarrassment that he had a nice laugh. Also, the poor lighting made it hard to tell, but he looked paler than he already had earlier, his complexion nearly white. “It seems that nearly becoming ‘rat feed’, as you put it, does not seem to have done you any lasting harm.” He turned serious again, his voice growing urgent. 

“I am truly sorry, good woman — Your name _is_ Arliene Aswyth, is it not?” 

I nodded, and that seemed to satisfy him. 

“Time grows too short now for levity.” He gestured towards his guards, who were visibly growing impatient at the delay. “They cannot understand why I trust you. How could they? They’ve not seen what I’ve seen.” He shook his head, hunching his shoulders somewhat as though attempting to settle an immeasurably heavy burden. “How can I explain? Listen. You know the Nine? How They guide our fates with an invisible hand?”

Again with the talk of gods? I hadn’t heard the Emperor was a devout man, at least not to this degree. I shrugged. “Well, the village priests used to teach that the N-nine guide and protect us, when I was a child. Now I’m a grown woman, I don’t know. I t-try not to think about it, because then I start to think that I’m not on good terms with the Gods at all, or rather that They actually hate me. After all, They’ve dumped all this — ” I waved my hand at our gloomy surroundings — “on my head, haven’t they?”

“I have served the Nine all my days, and it has been a hard service, and a long one, though not without its rewards.” The Emperor sighed, even as his tone lost the hint of bitterness it had had. His smile was wry, as he continued, “Be sure the Gods love us. I have not doubted it — even if, on occasion, that love more closely resembles a teamster’s for his baggage mule.” 

I choked on the weak ale I’d stashed as a thirst quencher. 

He continued speaking, even as I wiped my mouth and sniffled from the ale that had gotten up my nose. “I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. The signs I read show the end of my path. My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.” 

I was both fascinated and appalled at how calmly he spoke of his death, as though it were a foregone conclusion. “What about me?” I was genuinely curious now, Julianos help me. 

He looked at me, and once again I had that indefinable feeling of being caught by a terrifying force. It didn’t last long, however, because he broke the silence, voice soft, as though lost in a dream. “Your stars are not mine. Still, they have given you better luck than most, and the means to escape ill fortune when it comes.” He nodded, eyes growing ever more distant. “Yes. Today the Thief shall guide your steps on the road to destiny.” 

I was too numb from the continuing surprises to even wonder how the Emperor knew what he knew anymore, though I supposed it was possible he’d just known my birthdate from whatever records the Watch had on me after my arrest, and had just made the obvious calculations. He had seemingly known my name, and even written me a pardon earlier, after all; which I devoutly hoped Baurus still had in safe and legible condition. My mind threw the troublesome thought at me that the Emperor had shown knowledge of more than a few things he shouldn’t have tonight, which thought I quickly suppressed as being too outrageous. Yet my damnable curiosity led me to ask one last question. “Can you see my fate?”

“My dreams grant me no opinions of success. Their compass ventures not beyond the doors of death. But in your face, I behold the sun’s companion. The dawn of Akatosh’s bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied.” He shook his head, suddenly all business now. 

The Emperor then stood, with difficulty; he moved rather stiffly, and sitting on the cold stone obviously had done him no good. “Come. We must go.”

“Where are we going? I mean, we’ll be out of here, that’s for certain, but afterwards?” Did he mean for me to continue following in his train? His reply chilled me with its iron certainty. 

“I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part.”

I’d had about enough of all this talk of death. For Arkay’s sake, he might be old, but he was far from being a _corpse_! Surely he wasn’t in a hurry to be one either. “Aren’t you afraid to die?” I challenged.

“No trophies of my triumphs precede me. But I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy.”

 _Unbelievable_. I pitied the men and women who’d made it their work to keep him breathing. If this was an example of their boss’s general attitude towards his own survival, it must surely have them praying to the Madgod in short order. His fatalism was driving _me_ crazy. 

“Sire, what makes you so certain you’re about to die? Sure, all these assassins have been popping up like rats, but that’s no reason to give up hope of escape! Your people are determined to see you safe — don’t you trust they will get you out of here alive?” 

He laid a hand on my shoulder, as though to comfort me. “Do not grieve what will come to pass, for the living know that they shall die; men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this I am blessed to see the hour of my death… To face my apportioned fate, then fall.” 

I gripped my bow tighter. “Well, I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I intend to do my best to make sure that “fall” doesn’t happen.” 

The Emperor’s smile was very sad. “Thank you.” 

He obviously didn’t, or wouldn’t trust my promise. He started to walk on, Glenroy passing by me to get in front of our ragtag group, now numbering only four, five if I counted myself.

Baurus hung back a little. “You made my lord laugh. He hasn’t smiled in ages, not since —” He shook his head. “Thank you.” 

I had nothing I could say to that. 

“Oh, right.” He handed me a lit torch. “If you’re going to be sticking close, you may as well make yourself useful. Here, why don’t you carry this, and light our way?” 

I was momentarily dumbstruck before I shot him my best cross-me-and-die glare. _Make myself useful?_ Ha! If it weren’t for our current situation, I’d show him _useful_. 

I must’ve looked suitably intimidating, since Baurus backpedalled a little as he raised a hand. “No offense meant, I know you can handle yourself; it’s just that you’re looking pretty cut up already. Between the two of us, I think right now I’m better equipped to handle things, should the assassins show up again.” I wasn’t fully happy with that idea, and was still highly tempted to rake him over for his poor choice of words — useful, hah! — but I did have to agree with him there; my leather armour was already rent in several spots, and the only things keeping me upright by this point were potions and the burning need to be free of this place. Giving in with ill-grace, I stomped ahead.

  


* * *

  


Still bearing the torch, I moved up to just behind the Emperor, with Baurus and his comrade bringing up the rear, Glenroy again on point. Our footsteps on the stone and the clanking of my companions’ armour were the only sounds to be heard, apart from the occasional snap-crackle of pitch from the torches. 

_“For Lord Dagon!”_ The scream came from my left. Where the _fuck_ had that man come from? We soon had our hands full, the assassins attempting every dirty trick in the book and then some to reach the Emperor. 

The struggle carried us into the next room, where we killed the last of the assassins — a smaller group this time; perhaps we were thinning their numbers. 

Our numbers were thinned too. Baurus and Glenroy’s comrade, whose name I didn’t know, had fallen in the line of duty — a loss we couldn’t afford. I felt a rush of dizzy panic as I realised that only the three of us now stood between the Emperor and his would-be murderers, and that I was indeed expected to throw myself between him and any knives heading his way. I began to feel the first seeds of self-doubt: When push came to shove, did I really have the courage to stand between the Emperor and the assassins?

Glenroy looked appraisingly at me as I jogged up next to him. “You handled yourself pretty well back there.” Huh. Was he actually softening his position on my presence? “Just keep out of our way, got it? We don’t need amateurs to muddle things worse.” Apparently not. 

It seemed we were almost through to the sewers, which were our destination; and thence out of the city, according to Baurus. Just before the last set of stairs, Glenroy hissed. Turning his head, he called back to Baurus. “Hold up! I don’t like this. Let me take a look.” He strode down the stairs, looking around for traps, then went over to examine the gate I could see stood in our way. “Looks clear. Come on. We’re almost through to the sewers.” 

I drew in a deep breath. I could almost taste the free air of the outside world again, we were so close!

My dreams of freedom were squashed in a storm of swearwords coming from Glenroy, who was now angrily rattling the gate. “Gods dammit! The gate’s barred from the other side! It’s a trap!” I felt like swearing too. Whoever these assassins were, they were well-prepared, and overly well-informed about our plans. 

“Break the lock and full our way through?” I suggested. Glenroy paused as he parsed what I’d said, then drew his blade and brought it down, hilt-first on the lock. All that happened was a loud, hollow _bon-n-n-n-g_ and Glenroy losing his grip on the blade. 

I got closer to assess the lock and its supports. In the course of our occasional jaunts through ancient ruins, Clesyne and I had managed to break locks like these through applications of magic to weaken the lock itself. “Maybe we should weaken the lock first?” Glenroy turned in my direction, his expression screaming _what-hurry-up-out-with-it_. “If either of you can cast a flame spell, or freeze the lock repeatedly, it’s easier to break the lock open…” He was shaking his head as I said it, though. 

“I’ve no aptitude for the mage arts, Talos knows I’ve tried before, barely made a spark. Can _you_ do it?” I shook my head. “Baurus? You ever tried — ?” The Redguard grimaced even as he shook his head — no help there either. I wasn’t surprised, given the Redguards’ known distrust of magic, but it was still a disappointment. Glenroy glared some more at the gate and its stubborn bespelled lock, as though willing it to melt from sheer force of will. 

Baurus’s voice broke the silent gloom. “What about that side passage we passed by earlier? Maybe there’s a way out there?”

“Worth a try. Let’s go!” Glenroy and Baurus both headed into the side passage, with myself and the Emperor following close in their wake. It seemed there was no joy to be had there either, since the room ended in a cul-de-sac. 

“It’s a dead end. What’s your call, sir?” Baurus asked Glenroy, who was looking rather overwhelmed.

“I don’t know. I don’t see any good options here.” His face showed the stress of the situation. We were trapped here, without any options to open the gate, or to knock it down. I had a thought. Our assailants had been popping out of side passages and corridors all night; and they didn’t seem to have been using the main paths, which to my thinking suggested secret passages existed here; the old Ayleid ruins were chock full of them.

I was about to suggest we try and find a trigger for such a passage when Glenroy looked alarmed. Obviously he’d thought of something and wasn’t liking it one bit. “They’re behind us!” I sucked in a breath. If they were really behind us, they’d have us cornered in this room, like rats in a trap — Glenroy had the right of it.

Glenroy’s shoulders were squared. I knew that if what he suspected were true, he would likely die attempting to ward off the attackers lying in wait around us. If he were afraid of it, however, he gave no outward sign. “Wait here, Sire,” was his only command before he took off, sword drawn in a high guard. 

Baurus followed after, but not before saying to me, “Wait here with the Emperor. Guard him with your life.” I swallowed, feeling the shattering weight of responsibility descend fully on my shoulders. Stepping away and moving closer to the entrance, so as to give myself room to swing should the assassins come through, I tried running through my breath exercises, but found the focus they brought elusive. My mind was running in circles even as my ears strained to hear any sounds from the fight outside. Should the two Blades fall — 

“Forgive me.” I was startled by the Emperor’s words, as I spun around to look at him. His face was still covered in that weary grief I’d first seen in my cell, which now felt a lifetime ago; but now there was a mute entreaty there, a look that soured my stomach. 

“What?” What was he apologising for now? Why did he look so — _guilty_? 

“I can go no further. For me, it ends here.” 

I began to deny it, a hot rage curling in my throat. Why was he so obsessed with his death? 

“That I shall die this day, I have known; yet it will be through no fault of yours.” 

“Sire, stop this, p-please, I promised I would —” He shook his head, and the words died in my mouth. 

“This is where my journey ends. For you though, the road is long and dangerous; I cannot see all that lies on it. Now, give me your hand.” The Emperor was insistent enough that I relented and began to move closer, one eye still on the doorway, even as he began to fumble with something around his neck, hidden by the rich robes he wore, which were now rather battered by dust and dirt. Behind him, stone panelling gave way with a loud rumbling crack and a mighty cloud of dust that momentarily obscured my view of the Emperor. 

I froze at the sound, my tired mind thinking that the ruined stones had suddenly decided to give way, then realising in that same moment that the walls were too sound for that to happen. No! 

I ran forwards, cursing my slowed reflexes. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Hadn’t I just been considering the idea of a secret passage in the area? Why had I left him in that corner near those stone walls? My heart sank as the armoured form of one of the assassins appeared from within the dust cloud, dagger already raised, thirsting for blood. 

It was as though Akatosh had slowed the flow of time for a space, because the events I saw seemed to play out in slow motion, even as I cursed my tired body and forced myself to try and move _faster_. The Emperor was half-turned towards his assassin, who raised the knife and plunged the blade once, twice, into his unprotected back, then yanked the blade free. 

I will never forget the sound the Emperor made as the knife entered his back. I dream of it still: the pain and surprise on his face, the soft grunt from the impact of the blade sinking in, then a hoarse cry as the blade was ripped out of his flesh, over and over. The thud his body made as he sank to the floor echoed above the ringing in my ears, even as my traitorous right hand went completely nerveless and dropped my sword.

“Stranger, you chose a bad day to take up with the cause of the Septims.” The assassin’s voice was distorted by the fiendish armour he wore, all cruel black jags and spikes, like the creation of some inhuman mind.

I don’t remember if I answered him — much of what happened then was, and still is, a blur to my mind. All I clearly remember was the insane urge to eradicate the confidence in his voice, by any means I could manage; pelting forward, screaming, wrestling the smug fetcher face-first onto the ground, hot tears already dimming my vision, and then simply taking the bastard’s head in both hands and slamming it with everything I had, repeatedly, against the stone floor. 

I came back to myself, still numb and shaking, staring at my blood-covered hands, and the bloodied, unrecognisable face of the assassin, his bound armour long since vanished. For a few heartbeats I stared down at the still form. I’d just killed a man, pulped his face with my bare hands. My stomach rebelled and I rolled to my feet and away before emptying my stomach of its contents.

“Arliene.” I whipped around as I heard the faint voice calling my name. The Emperor was still alive! I flew to his side, fumbling for the last potion bottle I had on me. It was almost empty, but even the dregs would help keep him alive longer— 

The Emperor’s hand, skin nearly translucent and waxy settled on mine. “S-stop.” His breath hitched, and I knew then he was going to die, no matter what I did. Bitterly I cursed the gods for my lost magical abilities. Oh, how I would have happily given my life to be able to cast a Convalescence spell! I persisted however, holding the bottle to his lips and trickling the remaining liquid slowly into his mouth, but he shook his head slightly, and turned away from the bottle. 

I feverishly wondered if I had enough cairn bolete caps from the caves that I could chew into a poultice to stop the bleeding; then decided anything was worth trying and popped the mushrooms into my mouth. The taste was worse than dung, but I kept chewing for all I was worth. I fumbled for my dagger, forgotten until now, and started cutting strips from the edges of his robes to bandage his wounds, spitting the juices and pulp of the macerated fungi onto the makeshift bandages before pressing them to the wounds. 

“I have — ” The Emperor wheezed a little. ” — spent long enough fearing this day’s arrival. I shall be glad, since that time has now been abridged.” He gasped, and I helped him up, leaning his torso a little to the side so I could get easier access to his back. He then looked at me in the face, again, and his eyes burned with a feverish light. “Remember me, when I am dead, and remember my words. This is only the beginning. Worse — ” He paused, breathing heavily as a spasm of pain showed on his face, ” — is yet to come. You are our only hope to stem the blood tide.” I shook my head, confused. This was too much beyond my understanding. 

He lifted his hands to the neck of his robes, already shaking from the blood loss I could not stop, and drew forth a golden chain, on which hung a large red gem, many-faceted and set in gold, surrounded by eight smaller gems. The red gem flashed in the dim light, seemingly burning with a light of its own. I twitched as a sense of vast _presence_ washed over me.

The Emperor’s voice was now little more than a whisper; I could see how hard he was struggling to hold on, even as I pressed the soaked cloth harder against his back, where the lifeblood flowed ceaselessly to the ground. “My guards are strong and true, but even the might of the Blades cannot stand against the Power that rises to destroy us. The Prince of Destruction awakes, born anew in blood and fire. These cutthroats are but his mortal pawns.”

I was confused. Was he actually suggesting what I thought he was? “Mehrunes Dagon? The Daedric Prince?” The Emperor nodded. His hand on mine tightened, barely just perceptible. 

“This is the Amulet of Kings. It is — the Empire’s sacred emblem of rulership. It must pass to the last of the Dragon’s Blood. Keep it safe — from the pawns of the Destroyer. Take it, and give it to Jauffre.” He was fast weakening, and the effort to keep speaking was draining him even faster. “I have… secret son… Jauffre alone knows where… Find him. Find the last of my blood… close shut the marble jaws… of Oblivion.” He sagged backwards at this close. Only my arm, still pressed to his back kept him upright now. 

I was crying freely and couldn’t stop. The Emperor had been nothing but kind to me through this entire nightmare, and now he was dying in front of me and I couldn’t stop it happening. I’d promised to see him out of here alive and I’d broken my word. Gently, I laid him flat onto the floor. “I will, I will. I won’t ff-forget. I’ll t-take it from here, I promise, with all my heart. I won’t mail you again. I’ll find your son.” 

The Emperor’s eyes were already sliding shut, but his lips twitched upwards a fraction at my words, and he rallied a little. “You… haven’t failed me yet. Stand true, my friend. May your heart… be your guide; gods grant you strength.” His breath was already rattling in his lungs, the hated sound I knew presaged the last gasp of life. 

“Go. My blessings… hope of the empire… with you.” 

Those were his last words. 

  


* * *

  


Dimly I heard the heavy footfalls of someone in armour coming from the doorway behind me, and wondered if it were Baurus or Glenroy, or another assassin, tying up loose ends. That thought spurred me into action as I slid away from the Emperor’s body to face whoever it was.

It was Baurus. He was flecked from top to toe with blood, his armour rent in places, and he’d lost his helm at some point. He saw the Emperor’s body on the ground, and rushed over. “My lord!” He dropped to his knees next to the body, stripping off a bracer to check for breath, fingers frantically feeling for a pulse. His cry of denial was heartbreaking.

“We’ve failed. I’ve… failed. The Blades are sworn to protect the Emperor, and now he and all his heirs are dead.” He clenched his fists as he stood, then stormed over to where I was huddled in my own stew of misery and hauled me up, pinning me against the wall by the shoulders. 

“I TOLD YOU TO GUARD HIM! WITH YOUR LIFE!” He slapped me hard, and I let him. The pain in my face was infinitely better than the pain in my heart at the moment. “WHY?” He shook me so hard I grew dizzy. “Why did you let him die?” The last came out as a sob.

“I TRIED! EVERYTHING!” I screamed back at him. “Fuck you, you tt-think I didn’t? You think I _get_ him die? Fucking murdering bastard came from back him— from the bloody walls, gods cursed s-s-secret passages! He was stabbed before I could even get close!” My own blood was up now. “Where the hell were _you_? We needed you!” Stabbing a finger onto his chest, I continued to shout, getting right up into Baurus’s face, standing on tiptoes. “I needed your help to keep him alive and you weren’t here! What took you so long? Where the fuck is Glenroy?”

Baurus hung his head. “Dead.” He breathed hard, a gusty wavering sigh. “He was my friend. And the Captain. The men we left behind — I knew them, served with them for years. All dead now, for nothing.” He wiped a hand across his face. 

The last of my anger had died down to dull embers. I watched as Baurus stooped over the body of his liege; he seemed to be searching for something and was growing frantic. He turned on me. “The Amulet, where’s the Amulet of Kings? It wasn’t on the Emperor’s body.” His face turned dark. “You were the last to see him alive. Did you take it?” His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. I didn’t miss the silent implication being made that I’d killed them both, the Emperor and would-be assassin.

I sighed and held up the jewel, fighting back the shiver that being in direct contact with its sheer power triggered. “The Emperor entrusted it to me, before he died.” I swallowed, throat dry and scratchy from crying. “He mentioned I needed to find a person named Jauffre.”

“Jauffre? He said that? Why would he send you with the Amulet to Jauffre?” Baurus seemed suspicious still.

I weighed my options. The Emperor had obviously kept his secret son just that, a secret; for what looked to be very good reasons. And yet Baurus had proved himself loyal to the end. He was also probably not going to buy any lies I could come up with on the spur of the moment. 

“How do I know I can trust you? For all I know you could have been working with the assassins.” I stalled, still on guard, wondering how little I could tell him of the Emperor’s last request that would let me go free. I felt that Baurus might be trusted with the truth in full, but that didn’t mean everybody else he would be obliged to report to was. The Emperor had been betrayed tonight, I knew it as surely as I knew my mother’s name. Betrayed by someone who should’ve been loyal, someone who was close to him, who knew what route he’d be taking out of the city. Who could be more likely than the guards closest to him, who had shadowed his every move?

Baurus growled at this slight to his integrity. “I’ve served my lord with honour as a Blade for years, and I’ve kept all his secrets that I know of without needing a royal command. _You_ don’t get to stand there and throw accusations around, _prisoner_.” 

I scowled, but his words made me feel better about divulging a least a part of the truth. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to clear that I was jailed due to a m-mistake _your_ people made. You bloody idiots in the Watch and the Blades couldn’t t-tell the difference between me and my sister, didn’t fact-check before bringing the wagons around, and didn’t care to ear when I tried to say, even though I _told_ you who I was during my arrest.” The whole thing still rankled. Not least because had Clesyne actually been here, she’d probably have managed to save the Emperor — even back when I could cast them myself, my sister had always been naturally better at Restoration spells.

Baurus made impatient noises. “That’s neither here nor there. Never mind that now. Why go to Jauffre?” 

“The Emperor gave me something to do for him, something important. He also said Jauffre would know where to go. And no, I won’t tell you what it is.” I cut him off before he could interrupt. “Say I believe you, and you’re entirely trustworthy. That doesn’t mean everyone you report to is.” 

“We’re sworn to protect the Emperor and his family!” I wondered whether he was really that naive, or just that trusting, unwilling to doubt his compatriots’ honour. I knew very well from my experiences with Audens Avidius, that a man could swear an oath or several, on anything he fancied be it his mother’s honour or the gods’ witness; it didn’t mean he’d keep even the letter of it, never mind its spirit, or both. 

“Oaths can be broken or perverted, man, you see it! Stop being — being ox, and think! I’m on your side, dammit, and I’m telling you, you need to scrub house, because you have got to have rats in your ranks.” I hoped he’d see sense, because right now he was the only ally I had that I could count on, and more importantly, he could make my life very difficult if he chose by not letting me go free. The matter of the pardon weighed heavily on my mind. 

“Who else would’ve known the Emperor was taking this route? This way was supposed to be think to the Blades only, wasn’t it? And yet they found us again and again. _Someone_ had to have been feeding your enemies — our enemies — inside information. Who else could it be? It has to have been a Blade, and fairly sky in your ranks to be able to access this information.” Baurus’s face was sour, and he looked like his brain was working hard at digesting what I told him. I hoped my lecture had done him some good. 

“All right. You make a convincing argument. But what do I tell my superiors? They’ll want to know what my lord said to you, and where the Amulet is.” He grimaced. “The Elder Council, in particular, will have fits about letting an escaped prisoner run off with the Amulet of Kings. I almost can’t believe it myself that the Emperor gave it to you. It’s the most sacred symbol of the Empire there is. Most people think of the Red Dragon Crown, but that’s just jewellery. The Amulet has power, real power. And yet…” He sighed. “The Emperor, he saw something in you. Trusted you. They say it’s the Dragon Blood, that flows through the veins of every Septim, letting them see more than lesser men.” A heavy pause. 

I held my breath. Would Baurus believe me, trust me enough, to let me go do what I had to? 

“I don’t know what the Emperor saw, but I believed in him and his judgment; and if he trusted you, enough to give you the Amulet of Kings, I guess I’ll have to as well.” 

I breathed out, utterly relieved, as I nodded my head to him. “Thank you. You do have my writ of pardon on you, you realise?” 

Baurus’s smile was grim. “I do. So you _are_ the Arliene Aswyth he mentioned back there?” 

I nodded assent. I was mildly surprised he remembered, though I likely shouldn’t have been; those who served the Emperor as his personal guard were no fools.

“I’ll deliver it to the Chancellor with all speed once I’m done here. Can’t have you arrested on your way to Jauffre now, can we?” 

“About Jauffre —” I cleared my throat. “Who is he? The Emperor didn’t manage to tell me where to find him before he… passed.”

“Jauffre is the Grandmaster of my Order, though you may not think so to meet him. Very few outside our Order even know who he is. He lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol. I don’t know what business you’ll have with Jauffre, but the Emperor must’ve given you the Amulet and told you to take it to him for a reason; perhaps he knows — something —?”

“Don’t speculate, please. It could be dangerous to your health and mine. In all reality I’d rather not have said you this much even, except that I wouldn’t know where to start looking for Jauffre and hoped you’d know.”

He laughed. “You’re a suspicious one, aren’t you?” He tilted his head. “You speak strangely as well. Not been in Cyrodiil long?” 

I waved it off. “Speech problem. Old one. Happens. Not important right now. As for being suspicious — Wouldn’t you be, in my face? This thing,” I waved the Amulet in my hand, “is going to make me the next target of those red-robed bastards out there. I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of them.” Baurus sobered up immediately. 

“You’re right. The most important thing we need to do now, is for you to follow the Emperor’s last instructions, and get that Amulet out to Jauffre immediately.” He felt about under his armour, and brought out a key, which he gave to me. “Don’t lose that — you’ll need it to get to the secret way out through the sewers. We were supposed to bring the Emperor out that way so no one would know —” He swallowed, his expression crumbling before smoothing out again. “Well, it was supposed to be a secret way out of the city. Guess it wasn’t, huh?” 

He pointed towards the opened door, through which the assassin had entered and struck down the late Emperor. “The entrance to the sewers must be through that door, past the locked gate. The key I gave you will open the last door into the sewers. There’s rats and goblins down there; but given you made it through the caverns earlier, and from what I’ve seen of you in a fight, I’m guessing in any case they’ll give you no trouble — you seem to be an experienced fighter.” He looked at the dead assassin’s remains, and winced, quite visibly. “Do all your enemies look like that when you’re done with them?” he joked, feebly attempting to make light of the pulverised state I’d left the murdering son of a netch in.

My smile was toothy. “I can do well enough to get myself out of trouble,” I agreed. “And to answer your question: only the ones who make me really angry.” I had _not_ forgotten his earlier comments with the torch. Baurus looked uncomfortable even as he looked at my hands, and then back to the still body of the Emperor’s murderer. Hah.

“Good. Get the Amulet to Jauffre at Weynon Priory immediately. Take no chances with your safety, or the Amulet’s. I fear you may be right, and you’ll be hunted as soon as word gets out: the Elder Council leaks information like a sieve.”

I swore at the thought. “Goddamned useless bunch of old farts in p-petticoats! Haven’t they any sense? Do they not know the meaning of secrecy?” 

“Hey, hey. Take it easy. One step at a time.” Baurus set his hands back on my shoulders, gripping much more gently this time, though still firm. “I know this is a lot to take in, and everything’s probably looking rather overwhelming right now. I _do_ believe that the Emperor’s trust was well-placed, and he was wiser than anyone knew when he trusted you with this. If you are right, and the Blades have been infiltrated —” here his face twisted with chagrined anger — “our regular agents’ faces and descriptions have probably been leaked to our enemies. You might be our best shot at getting the Amulet away without detection.” 

Divines. This was nothing I ever wanted on my shoulders. And yet, who else was there? “And you? What will you do now?”

Baurus smiled reassuringly at me, but it faded as he looked down again at the late Emperor’s form, still lying in a pool of blood. “I’ll stay here to guard the Emperor’s body, and make sure no one follows you from here. I’ll do my best to stall any questions the Council and my superiors may have, for as long as I can when they start the questioning, later. Give you more time to get out and away to safety, before whoever those bastards are start coming for you, hopefully.” He gave me a gentle push in the direction of the opened door. “Go on. You’d better get moving. Talos guide and guard you on your road.”

“The gods watch over you, friend.” 

I turned to go at that, but then stopped short. I felt I had one last thing left to do here. I turned back to where the Emperor’s body lay. The aged face was peaceful, serene; I hoped that his spirit would indeed, in his own words from earlier, “rest easy”, after a long, colourful life that had been full of hardships. 

I crouched down and leaned in close to whisper a last promise. “Sire, if you can hear me from wherever spirits go — I’ll protect your son with everything I’ve got, see him safely to the throne. I swear it.”

  


* * *

  


I walked the dark passages, wary of noises; my mind however repeatedly turned over the words I had said earlier, just before I left Baurus with the late Emperor. 

_“Don’t lose faith. The Emperor did leave us some hope.”_

Poor Baurus. He’d obviously been rather confused by my words, and Divines alone knew what the Council might make of them, if he did report that last bit. Perhaps even giving out that cryptic hint was a mistake, but I found I really couldn’t care however: those words had been more for Baurus’ sake than anyone else’s, really. I’d found I couldn’t stand to see him so forlorn, and not leave him with something to hold on to.

I thought again of Baurus and his lonely watch, and hoped that help would arrive for him soon; being left alone with the dead strewn in his wake, guarding the body of his beloved liege-lord, stewing in his own guilt, was hardly good for his state of mind.

The light of the sun, even just under the horizon, was dazzling to my eyes, so long adapted to the darkness of prison cells and the gloomy, stinking sewers. The waters of the Rumare glittered blue and gold, the sounds of lapping, sighing water forming the background to the chatter of water-birds and insects. I took a deep breath, then plunged into the waters, swimming to the opposite shore.

Standing in the pre-dawn light and squeezing the ends of my hair to remove the water, the entirety of my imprisonment and the events of the previous night seemed surreal. I knew it was no dream however: I could feel the Amulet of Kings tucked away under my clothes and armour, its weight and solidity against my skin a constant reminder of my oath, its living presence a warm and vital sensation, like a fire on a cold night. 

The Emperor was dead, but he’d charged _me_ , a no-name, half crippled, jailbird adventuress, with carrying the hope of all the Empire to safety. The sheer amount of blind faith and trust in that gesture was staggering, even as it swelled my confidence and determination.

Chorrol was several days to the north and west, and I had no time to lose. No time to despair now over my sister’s whereabouts, or what I might do next after this. All those concerns seemed petty in the face of what had occurred in the depths of the City. As our mother used to say, “keep your head pointed to the sun and your feet moving forward”. 

I did have a short side-trip to make first. There was a small cache of things, hidden outside of an Ayleid ruin a little ways from here that I’d found not long before, and I did need to restock on supplies and equipment. A detour to grab them would be a good way to get used to prolonged exercise again, before making the run for Chorrol. 

Weynon Priory. I had only a foggy recollection of hearing the name once or twice, but no clear memory of its location, and Baurus had only said it was somewhere outside of Chorrol. Racking my brains for the geography around Chorrol, I remembered it would be either to the southeast of the city, or the southwest, I wasn’t sure which. I’d likely have to ask for directions in the city at some point.

Checking again that the Amulet was safely hidden, I turned my steps towards my destination. Whatever happened next, I was sure it was going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original Yuletide prompt I started with was for a humour fic detailing why the Hero was in jail. It ran _"... a case of mistaken identity, really bad luck and a string of hilarious and improbable coincidences involving a dancing bear."_ I'm so sorry it's taken this long, dizzy_fire!
> 
> I never dreamed that my planned 3k treat fic, that was meant to take all of a few hours; days at most, would mushroom into a full fledged series, with subplot kudzu, drama and multiple installments (3 more are in the works). This part alone, admittedly the least complex, has a monster word count of over 50k even with major last minute cuts, and took nearly 7 months' worth of research and writing. Mostly, it was the research. TES metaphysics wrung my brain into new shapes -- perhaps I should've warned in the tags for "Under the Michael Kirkbride Influence".
> 
> I couldn't have done this without the constant support and pom-pom waving from the WIP Big Bang community, particularly the awesome mods Frea and Shen, and the members of #yuletide, who have been very patient as I alternately flailed and panicked at them non stop, from October to _just this minute_ as I post. I'm sure that after all the hand-wringing, they think I'm a mad chicken flapping its wings, attempting to pass for human (and failing badly at it). 
> 
> Special thanks go out to baratron, who got me into Oblivion in the first place and supplied various ideas particularly bears wreaking havoc in a market, and Audens Avidius as trigger man; my artist and beloved bestie, ficwriter103, who signed up just to tackle the art for this fic; and to the TES Lore community at Reddit, particularly RottenDeadite, IceFireWarden, Sythirius and MareloRyan whose ideas have contributed to the glorious mess. And last but not the least, never the least; the heroic advance reader team: StellarWind Elsydeon, Varanu, Teh Coffee Zombie, AlterEgon, and Uneven, you have all been absolutely amazing.


End file.
